


King and Lionheart

by MsAtomicBomb



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night: Unlimited Blade Works (Anime 2014)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, I have yet to add any relationships as I don't know where I'm going with this too lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsAtomicBomb/pseuds/MsAtomicBomb
Summary: After being revived by his foster father, Diarmuid learns of his treasonous acts and decides to leave Hibernia for sure. Still longing to be a knight, he learns of a certain king that is willing to accept any kind of Knight. Camelot is quite the journey, but upon reaching it; he vows to prove himself worthy as a Knight of the Round table, maybe this time fate would not be so cruel and luck will be on his side.





	1. The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne I

     Breaking twigs and scratching her legs with branches, she kept on  mumbling things under her breath. It was densely dark that she was  barely able to see a couple of feet ahead of herself. The sky lacked the  moon for the night and only the stars could light as best they could.

      "I saw no need in disposing of the horse." She hissed.

      Her  feet ached and she was sure she would soon get blisters if they did not  stop for even a short while. Her heart was beating crazily between her  rib cage and she was panting loudly. "Diarmuid," she called as she was  following him through the thick forest. "Why did we get rid of the  horse." It was more of a statement and not a question.

      "We needed  to let Aoife go. She has given us more time to escape. Come on darling,  you must surely understand," Diarmuid replied as he continued to run  past the many trees.

      Gráinne grunted and continued to follow him,  it was tiring and she was not as swift on her feet as he was. "This is  ridiculous, what kind of princess runs in the shadows like this?" The  mumble was low so he could not hear her. "I cannot go any further," she  explained and she stopped next to a tree to rest. She leaned on it,  catching her breath and clutching her side.

      Diarmuid stopped in  his tracks as he turned to her and let out a soft sigh. "If you love me  so, we must keep running. Fionn will be able to find us if we do not  hurry."

      "Yes, but they have horses and we do not—because _someone_ let our horse run away!" She grunted.

      "Darling,"  his tone demonstrated understanding and compassion, "I know that you  are exhausted but we must keep moving," he mumbled and took her small  delicate hand in his own. "Let us keep moving."

      "But I cannot take another step," she whined. "My feet."

      Diarmuid  bit his bottom lip and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stood still  for a moment and then turned his back to her. "Get on," he insisted. She  obeyed and hoisted her up onto his back. He loved her— _or so he thought_ —and he did not want to let her go.

      The  peculiar thought was that they had only met that afternoon, but with  the second sentence she spoke, his heart has swelled in his chest and he  nearly burst with love for her. How cruel was their fate that she was  to wed Fionn; his liege and uncle. Now, Fionn was in pursuit of them,  ready to take their lives at any second for their misconduct and  betrayal.

      How had he even come to the decision of running away  with her? That he surely did not know. There must have been a demon  inside of him to coerce him to make that decision. He would never betray  his master, not even for something so trivial as love, so how was it  that this was any exception? _That she was any exception?_

      Upon  finding an abandoned coyote's den; he hurried into it and ushered her  inside. "It is safe here," he mumbled as he turned to her and cupped her  face.

      She frowned.

      "We will begin to move again in the morrow," he hushed, caressing her cheek lovingly.

      "I haven't the slightest idea of why I have arrived here," she grumbled. "My dress is torn and my life has fallen into chaos. _What am I to do_?"

      " _Darling_ ;"  he spoke, "I promise you, I will make your life better than it was  before, but only for today we must sleep here." Diarmuid kissed her  forehead.

      The night was freezing cold, sending stings to her  cheeks and fingers as the tears in her dress allowed the nipping breeze  to knaw at her delicate skin. She could feel the winter coming much  closer to them faster than Fionn.

      "I know, I am simply distressed,  forgive me," she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. The den  was stuffy and they only had little space to move about inside, but she  felt comfortable in his arms and she was able to fall asleep.

_You shall not sleep or stay in the same place twice for I will hunt you down until your heads are detached from your bodies._

      Her  scream echoed in the den and possibly throughout the forest as well.  She quickly brought her knees up to her chest and hugged herself. The  stern face of the man flickered in her mind every time she closed her  eyes. Rapidly, she turned her head towards the right, checking if she  had awoken Diarmuid, but much to her surprise; he did not sleep next to  her. Immediately, a wave of panic washed over her; had her géis failed  her? Had he left her for dead to return to Fionn and sell her out?

      Twigs  cracked and leaves crinkled under someone's feet as they approached the  den hurriedly. The man with the beauty mark rushed in. "My love, what  is worrying you?" He hushed, hoping she would relax upon seeing him. "I  feared that Fionn had found you." His strong arms wrapped around her and  she returned the gesture. "What is it that has made you awaken?"

      "A nightmare, Diarmuid, a simple nightmare. I think we should keep moving," she mumbled into his chest.

      "I have prepared breakfast, and then we can leave the den."

      "Yes...  That would be preferred." Her brown hair fell upon her face as she  nodded. "What will we be eating?" She asked as he led her out of the  den.

      "Quill. I was able to catch it early in the morning."  Diarmuid helped her up to her feet properly and gave her the food he had  managed to make.

      Gráinne sat by the fire and closed her eyes as she took the quill in her hands. "Thank you."

      "You're  welcome, my love." He smiled lightly and took her hand in his. "I..."  he began, "I am afraid as well, but we can only overcome this together. I  was thinking to see my father and he could aid us. We must travel to  the Bóinne."

      "To the Bóinne? But darling, that is too far away to reach on foot."

      Diarmuid  laughed lightly and she gave him a mild glare, how could he be laughing  in a situation like this one? "No; we will stop at a nearby village and  get a horse, then we will go to the Bóinne."

      Gráinne had barely  touched the Quill until it was time for them to leave the den; she left  the Quill on the floor and began to follow him past the trees once more.  They had probably been running for three hours and only rested for six,  as a princess she had never had such a night and she never wanted to  have one like that again. Yet by what was going on, she felt that it was  what was going to end up happening more than thrice.

      As they ran  through the forest once more, Gráinne took yet another break, one that  Diarmuid had gone unknown of. He continued past the tall thick trees  chopping branches down with his lances so that it would clear a path for  his lover.

      That was until...he ran straight into Oisín. He was  quick to back away slowly seeing that Oisín was not alone and was  accompanied by Lughaid. _This is it_ , he thought to himself, _Fionn has captured Gráinne and I._ It had not even been a day. Not a single day and he was already cornered.

      "Gráinne,  run." He turned around only to see that she was not there. His heart  began to beat insanely fast and he shook slightly. "What have _you_ done to her?" He turned to Oisín.

      "You  have been all alone since I found you. I have not touched her the  slightest bit." Oisín explained as he drew his sword. "You can be  pardoned," He started, "Fionn has promised to pardon you if you return  now. He knows you would not betray the Fianna without reason."

      "Where is Gráinne?" Diarmuid persisted.

      "I have said that I have not laid a single hand upon her."

      "Maybe not you but one of the Fianna have taken her from me."

      "Why have you betrayed us?" It was Lughaid who spoke this time around. "The Fianna _want_   to trust you, Diarmuid. We are practically brothers. Think of the many  battles we fought side by side, or the countless days we spent in a  Tavern or training area? All I want is to aid you, but you _must_ trust us as well."

      "How  can I trust the people that are hunting me as if I am some sort of  hare? Are you not betraying your uncle, Lughaid and you, your father,  Oisín." Diarmuid stood prepared to fight people he used to call his  friends, but deep within his heart; he pained.

      "Fionn has promised—"

      "I cannot return!" Melancholy laced his every word. "If Gráinne and I cannot be accepted together than I cannot— _will_ not go back." He interrupted Oisín's loud voice.

      "Then _run_!  Run because there is so much we can do to help you! Run, and never  again even think about returning." Oisín spoke hurriedly and in a  worried tone. "Although I too have lost my lovers to you, I _know_   this is not how you really are. There must be something that she is  doing to you. So save yourself and make it so that when we so find you  once more, it will only be Gráinne that we meet."

      Diarmuid frowned  but his friend's words filled him with happiness and even calmness. "My  sincere thanks, Oisín, and to you as well, Lughaid." Diarmuid smiled  softly. "I owe my life to you both and I will never forget that."

      "Your lady has returned." Oisín spoke and looked past the male.

      "Oisín,  Lughaid; stay away." Gráinne stated and stuck her hand out towards the  two knights, "Do not so much as take a step closer."

      "You are not the only to posses magic, _Gráinne_ ,"  he spat her name like venom, "so do not dare to make a move on us. We  are only trying to help you." Lughaid glared at the female. "Do as Oisín  has said and leave to wherever you deem safe. But as a warning, leave  through the North because it is the only place that the Fianna has yet  to surround."

      Gráinne slowly lowered her hand and looked at Diarmuid who approached her. "Can we really trust Fionn's eldest son and nephew?"

      "They  are my loyal friends and I trust them, so I feel it is necessary for  you to do the same." Diarmuid smiled down at her, his eyes hinting his  pain. "Now, we should do as they say and run away."

      "But I do not trust them; they could _kill_ us at any second." She grumbled.

      Oisín barked at her. "Maybe you, but never Diarmuid."

      Gráinne  gave a warning look to the males before Diarmuid's grip was strong on  her hand to urge her towards their escape. "I only hope that they are  not deceiving us, or I promise to have them beheaded."

      "Are we too  not to be beheaded, my dear? They do this to help me, so please  understand." Diarmuid held her hand tightly and they began to run once  more.

      She was truly tired of all the running and he was mostly  dragging her through the grass and between the tall trees, her dress was  torn and muddied so she was obviously upset, but she was trying her  best to keep up with the male. "We must cut the dress," he spoke as he  stopped her.

      " _What_?" Her brows furrowed and she looked at him with disbelief.

      "It  is obviously slowing you down, we must make it so that you are able to  move. Cutting it to the knee keeps you proper and makes you much more  flexible, darling. So, stand still and let my lances help you out." He  offered and she shook her head.

      "No! I cannot ruin this dress; it comes from Rome, what kind of girl allows for her dress to be cut so...so _brutally_?" Gráinne stopped him from cutting the dress.

      "I  highly doubt that a dress imported from Rome can save your life, my  love," he never intended the comment to be sassy but she took it that  way, "we must cut it if you want more dresses from Rome." Diarmuid shook  his head and sighed, taking her hand from his lance and preparing to  cut through the dress with ease. After all, it was only fabric and not  flesh. She squeaked as he made the lance cut through the satin and she  really wanted to stop him but there was nothing she could do now. "Let's  keep moving."

      As Lughaid had promised, there were no Knights of  the Fianna by the North exit of the woods and they were met by a small  village where they were able to obtain a horse with a simple, empty  promise of gold coins.


	2. The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> Hello all and welcome to King and Lionheart! I am pleased to say that I am rather excited for this fic! It has been a long time since I published this story but I hope that I am able to finish this one this year (2018) as it is absolutely my favourite ever. I hope that you will all enjoy this story and have fun while reading it! I never like to beg, and thus reviews are welcomed but not expected. I have many plans for this fanfic and I hope to incorporate many of them. Please look forward to the rest of this story.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Ms. AtomicBomb

     The beautiful river made the female sigh in relief and happiness. The bright sunlight sparkled upon its calm and steady surface while the autumn breeze kissed the underbrush and her cheeks; tinting them red. She was helped down from the black horse by Diarmuid and she wasted no time in running towards the river, slipping out of her slippers dipping her feet in the cool water. Her feet ached and she had blisters springing from them and although the winter was near, she invited the stinging touch of the water as she found it to be refreshing and calming.

     "Oh! I simply love the Bóinne." She smiled as she looked over her shoulder towards her lover, the sun glistening off of her brown hair.

     "I am glad that you love it," he smiled, eyes set on her. He looked down and sighed, "My father...can help us with Fionn so it would be best to find him." Diarmuid spoke softly and stayed at the edge of the river watching as she jumped about the shallow end of it.

     "Why won't you come in?" Gràinne asked as she tilted her head to the right and blinked, her eyes begging him to join her.

     Diarmuid stretched his lips and shook his head. "Not right now, I have to be on alert for Fionn can be anywhere."

     "Will we always be running from Fionn?" Her brows furrowed as she walked through the water to get closer to him, dress clutched in her hands.

     "I am afraid so." His voice was a whisper and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her into a hug.

     "I think that my father can help us, as well." She returned the embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist.

     Diarmuid kept silent, closing his eyes and patting her head.

     "You can trust him. Her cares much for me." She was tilting her head up to view him and his expressions. "I am certain that he will make you a Knight too!" Gràinne squeezed the man.

     Diarmuid's smile seemed to drop and he looked at the Bóinne river, watching as the water calmly ran past them. It was the worst decision he had ever made; betraying the Fianna. It hurt his spirit to have abandoned his vocation, everything he had ever wanted in life was found in Knighthood and now he lost all he knew.

     His grip tightened around his lover as he felt his heart yearn for his title. Fionn had stripped him of it when they decided to run away and now he wished that Fionn would be merciful... maybe let them live in his lands and let Diarmuid continue being the great Knight he is, but it was all for naught. It would never happen.

     There were still unanswered questions that lingered in his mind, the fact that he could never answer them made him irritated. How on earth had the foster son of Aengus and a _loyal_ knight of the Fianna gotten himself into such a mess? Not even the Dagda could tell him, whether it be to keep him from harm or simply because he too did not know.

     The door of the small lodge creaked open revealing a fairly young man. Hair that of red flames and skin so fair he almost looked like an angel, his eyes nothing more than a deep ocean blue and he stood straight, looking upon Diarmuid before even speaking a single word. "Diarmuid? Why have you come?" His sweet voice inquired.

     "Father, there is no other way I can say this..." Diarmuid drifted, "Fionn is hunting us."

     Aengus furrowed his brows and was taken aback by his son's comment. "Your uncle would _never_." The son of the Dagda shook his head in disbelief, his voice scandalized. "Why would you say such a thing?"

     "Gràinne— _father_ —Gràinne and I have run away." The Irish warrior licked his lips and stepped aside for Aengus to get a view of the young lady.

     Immediately, Aengus brought his hand up to his mouth as he gasped. "What have you done, Diarmuid?" He choked and let the couple inside the lodge, checking if anyone has seen. "What in—what have you gotten yourself into? Are you insane? You are part of the Fianna, why would you—"

     "Father, I love her." Diarmuid reasoned as he took a hold of Gràinne's hand. She stood still and looked at her soon-to-be father-in-law with a pleading expression.

     "Is your love for her stronger than your loyalty to Fionn? To your King? _To your uncle_?" He glared at the female that stood next to his adoptive son. Her tricks would not fool him.

     "Father," Diarmuid took a deep sigh, "If I am here with her then—"

     "No! I know you much too well for this obscenity to happen, _why_ have you betrayed Fionn?"

     "Because she loves me and I fell in love with the wrong person, father, can you blame me for listening to my heart?"

     "I do blame your mind. She does not love you, Diarmuid, you of all people should _know_ that." Aengus spoke as if Gràinne was not standing in the same room as them. "It is that cursed beauty mark of yours! She does not love you!"

     "I do so!" Gràinne barked at the man.

     "You have heard her speak; she loves me and I love her." The young man's face turned stern and he looked at Aengus in a way he had never done; some sort of hatred in his amber eyes.

     "Young lady! Do not dare speak to me like such! Get out of this house immediately and wait outside." The son of the gods hissed.

     "You cannot treat me like that! I am a princess!"

     "You are a fugitive in these lands! I can call for Fionn and he could come in less than a second and take you away." There was silence after Aengus growled at her to leave the house and she proceeded to do so, letting go of Diarmuid's hand and giving him a kiss on the cheek before exiting the house.

     "What has come over you?" Aengus made his son sit down on one of the many wooden stools.

     "You cannot speak to my lover the way you have done, father."

     "Diarmuid, tell me; what has come over you? You should know that Gràinne does not actually love you;" he shook his head, "surely you must, so why is it that you have ran away with her?"

     "Because I love her."

     "Do not jest with me! How can you fall in love with the betrothed of your king? That is nothing like you."

     "I have! I have fallen for her."

     "You cannot out run Fionn and the Fianna. He will not stop until he has both your heads on pikes and your body parts are scattered over the many villages he reigns to show the people what happens when they disobey their king. Do you want to soil your name and reputation for a simple woman who is under a spell? You would not be the cause of an innocent girl's death."

     "Why do you not believe me?"

     "You care not if she dies because of you?"

     "She loves me! And I love her; we would go to the end of the world for one another. You would never understand." Diarmuid would have never said that if he was in his right mind.

     A hurried knock on the door interrupted them and the princess stumbled inside. "Fionn has arrived!" She called as she ran towards the Lancer, who—on instinct—drew his lances from thin air. "Where are we to go?" She frantically began to walk about the room even as the barking of Sceolan and Bran was heard. "We must leave!"

    Aengus felt his heart drop; it was either save his son or let them be executed for their crimes against the crown. "Bóinne will aid you," he gulped and looked at the young man he raised. "I will do my absolute best to speak with Fionn, so go into the river and give her this token, she will give you a safe passage for a single day. You must return to this lodge to retrieve Gràinne in the morrow. Hopefully by then, these matters will be resolved." He handed the other male a small coin.

     "I will not leave without her!"

      " _Diarmuid_ , I promise to keep her safe! Now do as I say. My cloak will keep her invisible, and I will deal with the hounds."

     Diarmuid gave a stern smile as Aengus moved a shelf that opened a hole in the wall for him to leave through the back of the lodge and right into the river.

     "Go!" He ushered him out to the escape route and hugged his son goodbye. "I have only done this for you. Beware of the boars!" He warned once again to the son of Donn before closing the hidden passage way and proceeding to hide the young female.

     Diarmuid ran out to the river and noticed as the Fianna came into view; they had the house surrounded. The grip on his lances became tighter and, with courage, he ran straight into the swarm of Knights. He was going to fight for his lover and it would be the only way he would earn Fionn's trust once more.

     His lances were quick to collide with the long sword of one of the men he used to command no more than a week ago. Never had he thought that it would come to that conclusion, a Knight fighting his own country for a woman that he used to believe was unnecessary in his life after the beauty mark was placed upon him by a wicked witch. Quickly, he was surrounded by the Knights and he was trying his best to keep up with the many attacks.

     "Please! Let me go!" He called out to the men.

     "I want him **dead**!" The deep voice of Fionn danced over the clashing weapons.

     Diarmuid could only do so much to withstand the assaults of his fellow comrades and he thought it best to flee; the point _was_ to distract them. A swift jump made him land atop a solder's head and he was off! His feet gliding over the many knights and his lances close to his body. He hoped that his father was keeping Gràinne safe in the lodge and he did trust his father, but he was only afraid.

     Fleeing into the woods near the river and making the entire troop follow after him, he could hear the commands.

     "What man are you to flee with my fiancée?" Fionn's voice echoed through the forest, causing birds to fly and the forest to fear the band of knights that invaded the lands. The king's voice made Diarmuid's breath hitch and heart race. If Loughiad was doing Fionn the favour to hunt his cousin down, he would surely be capture at any given moment, but he only prayed for Loughaid to stall.

     The water droplets hit the trees as the male ran past them, trying to keep as far from the Fianna as possible but close enough to have them follow him further into the forest to buy time for Aengus to transport his lover to a safer place. He was surely at a disadvantage, besides the fact that he was out numbered, the Fianna knew him much to well; they knew his skills, his strengths and worst of all; his weaknesses.

     The young man ran through the forest, dodging the many arrows that wished to drag him to the floor along with themselves and making sure to keep far from weapons that wanted to pierce through him. Trees were both advantages and disadvantages, but he tried to use them to the best of his ability.

     Arrows, bolts and rain drops were mixed together as they fell from the sky and poured down around him. His feet were as swift as they could ever be, even if his bones and muscles ached he tried his best to push himself; this was for Grainne and for his future. He was going to succeed and he would find her again. They would only be away from each other for less than a night, he was sure he would see her in the morrow, or so he hoped.

 


	3. The Barking of the Hounds

 

     The rain was causing for a more challenging escape on the male's part. It was pouring heavily and it only made him worry that they would be able to capture him and trap him somewhere far, possibly to torture him. His heart was practically ready to jump out of his body whilst he tried to suppress his heavy breathing. The barking of Sceolan and Bran became louder and louder that he feared the end would be near. It was a surprise to him that the Fianna had yet to catch him, considering they were on horseback and he had no other mode of transportation, besides foot. There was growling and rumbling of the clouds mixed with the barks of the—previously human—hounds that filled the air and light shun every now and again as lightening hit the earth from the heavens. The sounds were making his head pound in rage and exasperation, he disliked the loud surroundings.

     Mud covered him as he made his way through the trees, rain dripping from his face and making it rather hard for Diarmuid to see and breathe. He coughed as the water entered his trachea and he tried his best to keep hidden up on a tree, he had somehow managed to climb. There was no way they would miss him, but he was extremely exhausted and he could not possibly keep running from the Fianna. The lances in his hands were starting to get slippery from the water and he hoped that the dogs would over look him due to the chaos that the world was currently in. The arrows began to break through the air as they were aimed at him, and he took the chance to run through the tree branches after having his Lances disappear. Feet rapidly gliding atop thick branches as he jumped from tree to tree; as dangerous as it was, it was the only way to save himself. The cries of men filled his ears and he closed his eyes as he jumped for another branch, one much too far for him.

     His right foot slipped from the branch and he began to feel reality as he felt his heart stop and arrows swerve past him. A delicate hand caught him and with a quick tug upwards, he was able to steady himself on the thin tree branch.

     A beautiful red-haired women brought a finger to her plump red lips. "Shhh." There was a wicked smile on her face as she fell backwards from the branch. He could not help but call out to her as she fell, yet for some reason the arrows had ceased and no words left his throat. A somersault and she landed on her feet.

     The red-head wore a rather revealing green dress and she sat at the foot of the tree that Diarmuid stood upon as the Fianna approached her. "Have you seen a man?" Fionn's horse stepped towards the beautiful seductress.

     Her smile widened, and she laughed. " _A_ man? I see many." Her shoulders raised in a shrug.

     Clearing his voice, the leader raised his voice, "Milady, other than the Fianna."

     "Other than the Fianna? Not _exactly_." Her head shook and she reached for the horse closest to her; the horse of a great sorcerer.

     " _Youth_?" Lughaid inquired. "What are you doing in these woods? You have been expelled, have you not?"

     "Lughaid, it has been a rather long while, how goes it?" This time, her smile seemed genuine, as if she were delighted; excited even.

     "We are not here to make idle chit-chat, let us pass as we overlook your unwelcomed stay."

     "You needn't be stingy. I believe that it would be good to talk about our last encounter." The female smirked triumphantly as she raised her hand and pointed it at the Fianna. Although she was glad to see an old friend, she recalled the true reason she had appeared.

     After whispering incoherent words under her breath and opening her vibrant green eyes, a swarm of locusts came from behind her, attacking the band of Knights. The horses whined and within a couple of seconds, both the rain and the Fianna had disappeared from her sight, and Diarmuid climbed down from the high Scots Pine to look her in the eye.

     "Youth..." He mumbled, goosebumps littering his skin and breath sounding shakier than he expected.

     The female turned towards him with a seductive smile on her face. She hummed, "Diarmuid, how long has it been since _our_ last encounter? I see no one has been able to take _that_ little detail off you." She reached for his cheek and caressed the beauty mark; glancing upon it with mirth and pride. "I must be a great sorceress." She laughed melodiously and stood on her toes to kiss him.

     Her lips pressed against his momentarily and she proceeded to mumble against his lips, "Sadly, that _child_ has gotten you under a spell as well, what a prat."

     Diarmuid gently pushed her a way, his features had hardened and he gave her a glare. "Why did you—"

     "Because, _my love_ ," she brought him closer to her once again, running a hand through his dark tresses while her voice became a hateful hiss, "it was unfair that I loved you and yet, you had no feelings for me...I," she looked away, as if reminiscing about the day she cursed him, "wanted you to feel the pain of fake love," she breathed.

     Her pupils narrowed within the expanse of her green irises once she was looking back up at him. She turned to leave, her garments swirling around her as if suspended in enchantment. "Well, I bid my farewell, darling. Oh and please send my regards to Aengus; tell him I say hello and that the hounds are near." And with a blink of an eye, she had vanished.

     It was late upon his arrival back to Aengus' lodge. He was drenched in sweat and rain water, his armour covered in mud and his face and hair a complete mess.

     "Diarmuid!" A sweet voice called and his star-crossed love ran to him, wrapping her arms around his torso and hugging him tightly. "I had feared that Fionn had captured you. Thank goodness you are safe."

     "I am fine, darling." He wrapped an arm around her, for the other had been injured by a tree branch. "I am glad that my father has kept his promise."

     "I would never betray my son." Aengus leaned on one of the beams inside the house. "I see that you've encountered Youth."

     "Youth? She came to you?" Gráinne looked up at the male a little irritated as she let her arms fall from his torso. Her face twisting with jealousy and anger.

     Diarmuid nodded hesitantly and blinked a couple of times. "Yes... She told me that Aengus should know that the hounds are near."

     "They are at the door already." Aengus grumbled, pushing off from the beam and rubbing his face. "You must go. _Now_. I cannot keep you under my wing any longer. Go to the High King. He will be able to aid you in your troubles, but it would be best if a god is not involved in human follies."

     "If it is what you wish, we will leave, but please give us your blessing, father." Diarmuid stepped towards the god.

     "I cannot do so. I do not exactly approve of... _this_ ," he pointed at the two young adults, "and therefore there is nothing I can do about the hounds." He shrugged and turned. "Go to Cormac Mac Airt. Hopefully he can give you the blessing. I will give you but one more token for the river."

     Contrary to what Aengus had promised, the Bóinne had held them for less than a day this time around. Upon their realization of the tragic event, they did not know where they had ended up. Diarmuid did not recognize the landscape at all, and he was sure he had seen all of Fionn's lands during his adventures as a Knight...Which only meant that they were no longer in his territory.

     Their journey to any village was long and they never did find one. Gràinne was upset that she had yet to find a warm bed and good food. Weeks had passed and her aching feet were a common occurrence, but with a child on the way, there was not much she could do.

     "I am hungry," she whined and they stopped so that she would sit on a log. "Do you remember that garden we passed by on our way here? May we return and have a plum or two? Or maybe some rowan berries? Please darling?" She urged, the look in her eyes persuasive.

     "But the Searbhán, we cannot possibly get past him." The knight reasoned, kneeling next to his lady.

     "He was kind to us when we spoke..." She hummed, and then her eyes lit up. "A mere three berries, please?"

     Diarmuid nodded and kissed the young woman's forehead. "Alright, my love."

     Upon their return to the Garden, the Searbhán smiled at the human with kindness. The giant stood at a good nine feet, almost twice Gràinne's size, both vertically and horizontally. He was leaning on his iron club the way a gravedigger would lean on his shovel. A single eye was set in the center of a broad forehead. Thick scars marred his equally thick skin, but a kind light graced his eye, and his lips were gently smiling. Like his smile, the garden shone brightly, with the promise of a bright and lovely day. Full orchards and bushes and golden fields spanned the area, splashed here and there with vibrant colors of blossoms. It looked like the garden of Eden.

     "May I please have some rowan berries?" Diarmuid asked, eyes trained upon the giant's face.

     The one-eyed giant scratched his head and let out a hearty laugh, as if Diarmuid had said the joke of the century. "No, silly human, they are not for you."

     Diarmuid began,"My lover—"

     "Gràinne?" The Searbhán gave a sidelong glance to the princess. "The one to put you under a spell? What of her?"

     He grimaced but let his bias subside, "As a pregnant lady does, she too craves certain foods. May you spare but only three berries? Please?" Diarmuid pleaded as he held up three fingers.

     "No," the Searbhán hissed.

     "Please! Only three berries, nothing more, I promise."

     "As a pregnant lady does," the giant returned the words, "she will demand more. Thus, my answer remains a no." And with that response, Diarmuid was prepared to take the giant down (at his lover's request). Adrenaline began coursing through his system. It was hard for him to do so with only his lances, always opting for attacks every now and again, sometimes defense, but the monster would outsmart him.

     After all, Diarmuid was a mere human against a legendary beast.

     Like all battles, instinct and years of training and combat took over, and there was no time to think.

     The knight lunged forward, lances gripped tightly.

     The beast swerved, swinging his club to the right to catch Diarmuid, but to no avail.

     Diarmuid _nearly_ stumbled on his feet, but he steadied himself with his red lance.

     Time both slowed to a stop, yet somehow everything would happen all at once. Diarmuid's primal wish consisted of only two things; survival, and triumph, to destroy his assailant. But even so, the giant had lived longer, and outmatched him in strength, size, and sometimes, as much as Diarmuid loathed to admit it, wit. He didn't take long to realize his spears were ineffective facing this style of combat.

     He began to take more hits.

     The giant raised his club for a final blow...but he was wide open.

     Diarmuid slashed at his chest, however, the giant slapped away the lance. Diarmuid used his second spear to cut away at the offending hand that wielded the club.

     Ichor welled from the wound, and the Searbhán roared in pain as he dropped his weapon; the club rolling away harmlessly through the grass. The roar itself was deafening, and something about it made the hairs on Diarmuid's neck stand on end. It was not at all a human or civil sound. Losing his weapon didn't hinder the giant much though, and if it did, he didn't show it.

     So continued the struggle.

     Diarmuid didn't see it, as he was focused solely on his assailant. But, Gràinne had managed to heft the club, and tripped the Searbhán in his own gardens to deliver the final blow with the giant's own Iron Club.

     Ichor matted his strands of gray hair where the club had hit.

     The two lovers looked down upon the lifeless body. Gràinne's chest heaved with adrenaline and the effort expended. Diarmuid wasn't proud of killing the giant, but they'd had no choice. Food was, in fact, necessary for their survival.

     And, Diarmuid told himself, if he had to choose the giant's survival or their own survival; he'd of course choose theirs.

     They had come too far for anything otherwise. And with Gràinne pregnant, he would not dare let her fall into any harm or unnecessary discomfort.

     A bag full of berries (which must have been enchanted somehow, as they never rotted) for the expecting Gràinne lasted until they reached their destination; the Tara, weeks later.

     Gràinne smiled upon seeing the castle she grew up in, rubbing her now prominent belly. They were safe—or so she thought.

     She was far from presentable when she entered the palace, her clothes tattered and most certainly unfit for a princess, Diarmuid close behind as he kept on look-out for any of the Fianna. It was truly an embarrassment when Gràinne stormed into the council room without being announced and without permission. Cormac looked upon his daughter and made some sort of face of disgust. He stood from his throne and excused himself before hurrying towards his child. He pulled her out of the council room and dragged her to another, with Diarmuid following them.

     Gràinne did not seem to mind her father's sudden wrath. "Father! Fionn is after me! He has been hunting us down for months now!" She grumbled and pouted.

     Cormac, the son of Airt, glared at her. "This is the man?" He glanced at Diarmuid not even heeding his daughter's words. "Get him out of my castle! Ireland is in civil and political unrest because of him!" The High King ordered and Diarmuid gave a questioning look to his lover.

     "Father! You cannot do that! I love him!" Gràinne replied and threw her arms around her father so that he would sympathize with her.

     "Your child-like folly ends here. I will not allow this stupidity and atrocity to go on any further!"

     Gràinne's eyes grew, she gasped and drew a hand to her chest. "I am carrying his child, father, an heir to the throne that my sisters could not give!" She declared, stepping away from her father.

     " _A bastard_! Not an heir! _Guards_! Get her to her chambers and ensure she cannot leave!" Cormac stated and the guards stepped towards the princess.

     She stared at her father with contempt and disbelief. She gawked, " _How could you_?" The betrayal set in, her heart ached and tears began to blur her vision. She was distraught as two guards took her by the arms. "I am your daughter!" She hissed and tried to pry away from the unwanted grips.

     The High King waved his hand as if to shoo her away and the guards ushered a kicking and screaming young woman out of the room.

     Diarmuid had tried to stop them but he too was bound; hands tied behind him and lances out of his reach.

     "You rat, what did you do to my daughter?" Cormac hissed.

     "I have done nothing!" Diarmuid began his defense. "We simply fell in love, my High King."

     "Do not think me a fool! You have made her fall under your spell!"

     "I have done nothing of the sort!"

     "Exiled from Ireland! You are exiled from Ireland!" The High King barked and growled similar to Sceolan and Bran. "Leave this country immediately."

     "My King—"

     "No further words from you! You are charged with treason. The only reason I spare you, is for the sake of my daughter! Now be gone!" It was then that the guards held the young male back and dragged him like a lunatic out of the palace. He kicked and screamed too, wishing to see his beloved once more, but he was only thrown out of the castle; with a bounty on his head.

     The amber eyes of Diarmuid fluttered to a close as blood trickled from his mouth. The last he saw was the light being filtered by the green leaves of the were a few clouds in the sky and he cursed under his breath for such a lovely weather had fallen on such a day.

     He smiled, surprisingly, for he had hated his life. What a horrible collection of events; his life was horrid, it was pitiful, it was mediocre.

     The blood puddled around him as he lay dying. So, _that_ was what both Youth and Aengus had tried to warn him of; _the Boar._ He should have not trusted Fionn, he should have not gone on a meaningless hunt. He should have known that jealousy never fades; not with time, not with wives.

     There was a incoherent chuckle and he took a deep shaky breath, why was it a boar that would kill him? That was something he was so sure he would never understand, he _was_ dying after all. The pain was unbearable, he was sure that this was the end of his life. It had been such a horrible one, but he would miss it. He would miss Knighthood and maybe even fatherhood too.

     His mind recalled the two mistakes he had made in his life.

_"Please, let me in." An ugly woman mumbled._

_The rain poured down with heaviness and filled the cabin's silence. The biting cold wind shook the house and the woman before him shivered. He analyzed her; her clothes were torn and stained. She had nothing but a thin shawl to shield herself from the unforgiving Autumn._

_"Yes," he nodded, stepping aside to offer her the comfort of the cabin, "come in. Take my bed, it is right by the fire."_

_She offered him a toothy smile, eyes weary but lips stretched genuinely._

     He would have never imagined that it would be Youth.

_"You must surely marry me." Red coiled hair framed the young woman's face. Her fair skin littered with freckles and sweet beauty marks. She had piercing green eyes that took his breath away. Her smile was much sweeter than honey and her lips so plump.  
_

_Diarmuid shook his head, "I cannot."_

_Her thin brows furrowed and she tilted her head oh-so seductively. She blinked, "You must." It hadn't been a question.  
_

_"I..." he looked away for fear her eyes would lure him, "I am sorry, but I do not love you."_

     ...Then Gràinne fell in love with him.

_"Even the water that splashes upon my legs is much more adventurous than you are." She teased, a light giggle that filled the air around him was intoxicatingly pleasant. Her look was intoxicatingly delightful._ She _was intoxicating._


	4. The True Worth of a Knight

     "You want to be one of Our knights?" A very petite man lifted his eyebrow and gazed upon the male. He must have had confidence and guts to even appear in front of the king during a show put up for his entertainment. Never had he encountered something like this before and he admitted he was intrigued.

     The monarch himself was much smaller, a dwarf in comparison to Diarmuid's stature. Well, if he had to say, more elf-like. The man may have been small, but he was slender and lean, with muscles that were probably hidden under the heavy armor. Even if he hadn't had combat training, he must have been quite fit—wearing armor of that size was no easy burden.

     "Yes, my Prince." He stood up from the bowing position he was previously in. The strand of black hair that did not obey the rest was dangling in front of his face (irritating him a little) while he kept his gaze on the male before him.

     " _King,_ " the short man corrected.

     "My King." He repeated, maybe it embarrassed him that he had made a mistake in front of the huge crowd in the arena, but he tried to brush off his light blush and uneasiness. Though, the king did look very young or childish-like to even be a king, let alone how short he really was.

     The king's green eyes seemed to smile and he sat up straight, an elbow rested upon the arm rest of his throne, as his hand touched his cheek. His armor sat atop of his royal attire, and his sword was near him, sheathed and perched nicely upon a table.

     As was custom in Camelot, the king reached for his weapon and stood from the seat. The knight watched his every move carefully, Gáe Buidhe remained on the dirt floor as Gáe Dearg was held tightly in the former knight's right hand.

     "A duel, We would request, to prove that you are worthy of being a knight of Camelot, would you not agree?" His royal highness inquired as he walked down from the elevated throne, down the dais, and looked upon the people, who cheered in approval.

     "Anything that my King desires." Diarmuid bowed once again—his bronze eyes sparkling at the invitation of a duel—and kicked up Gáe Buidhe only to catch it with his left hand. "Whenever your majesty is ready." He smiled the monarch's way.

     The king gripped the air as if he held the handle of a blade. Dimly, Diarmuid recalled stories, _legends_ rather, his father would grace him with when he was young, of the ruler of a far land who wielded an invisible blade that had been undefeated by many. Without having to even think, Diarmuid knew instantly that he was facing a high-caliber warrior.

     The king took his sword and lifted it with a show of ease and practice that could only be achieved after many years. His eye twitched and he would have grunted because God only knew how long the sword really was. His amber eyes then skimmed across the crowd, catching the eyes of many ladies, who would squeal at his sight.

     "Then let us begin." The ruler of Camelot directed the sword in the Irish warrior's way.

     Diarmuid crossed his red lance with the invisible blade. He wondered if it was even a sword at all, but his suspicions were answered once the metal clacked with his own lance, and he was able to feel the force emitted on it with the sovereign's sword, a resounding aftershock that made his nerves scream and go numb for the briefest of moments.

     Once the monarch had drawn his sword back, the duel had officially begun. Diarmuid opted for an attack first and the king took a defensive stance. The smaller man's feet were spread apart in order to center his balance as the opponent's first attack came into view. Instead of thrusting the lance forwards, the knight whipped it towards the potentate's side.

     The king was light on his feet and quick to block his attack. Swift and agile, if one were specific on how the king moved. His sword was remained invisible and the Irishman was at a disadvantage; there would be a hefty price in terms of sacrifice, should he seek to find the dimensions of the King's blade.

     The yellow spear was discarded off onto the floor somewhere and the King immediately paid little to no attention to it, rather he was focused on the manner that the other expertly glided the red lance about his fingers, wasting not a moment to thrust the weapon towards him. Sounds of appreciation and awe filled the atmosphere as the crowd intently watched the two warriors attack one another in a fatal dance.

     It was the monarch's turn to strike, and he refused to be cornered by the other male any longer, for both the sake of his dignity and for the sake of tactics and strategy. The invisible sword swerved around the lance and the royal managed to push the Irishman away before he brought the pommel of the sword up to his chest. The blonde's green eyes narrowed in complete and utter concentration as he thrust the blade towards the other warrior.

     The foreigner dodged it and tumbled away a little bit, making sure not to show the weakness he so had demonstrated seconds prior to his recovery. He fell into a defensive stance, with muscles tensed like a feline about to pounce.

     Diarmuid tried to find a way to determine the length of the ruler's blade, and an idea suddenly occurred to him. He would show an opening and catch the sword with his lance, with a quick glide from base to tip, his estimate would only miss by mere millimeters.

     Maybe the royal had anticipated the move or maybe it was simply by chance, but he ignored the opening and stepped back a little bit. There was so much he could do in order to let his long sword reach the lancer's body. Fighting a Lancer was much more difficult and rather challenging, but he tried to get past his advantage, although he also had one of his own.

     Diarmuid made an effort to bite back a remark, after the king had so expertly avoided his trap; it was probably much too obvious, now that he had gone back to it.

     The monarch had a slight hesitation for some odd reason and his assaults returned. The sword wielder began to tire as the battle bore on in the same way all battles did _—_ in scathing slow motion, yet everything happened at once.

     The King's arms threatened to sink from the weight of the sword, but years of experience prevented him from doing so.

     Meanwhile, the lancer only needed to thrust and plunge the weapons _—_ which happened to be much lighter than a sword, the King noted _—_ forward.

     After dodging a couple of his thrusts the shorter male decided the best plan of action would be to attack. Swinging his sword to be able to hit the towering adversary, he missed, but managed to scratch the other's face with the tip of the weapon. A thin line of blood welled from the shallow wound, and a single drop of blood made its way down the lancer's face, trailing from his cheekbone to the chin.

     "You are rather talented, my King." Diarmuid smirked, once Arthur had caught his lance with the invisible sword. Suddenly the smaller man stood at his elbow, locking his spear against the King's own armor-clad wrists, their bodies in close contact. Diarmuid could feel the ice-cold of the armor's metal seep into his skin, as if the metal itself was making a conscious effort to numb him to the world.

     "As are you," he said in response. Arthur maneuvered his sword and his own arms in such a way that as he pushed his small body against the Irishman, he twisted Diarmuid's wrists, forcing him to drop his lance, leaving him weaponless. "...but not as much as We would have expected from the First Spear of Fianna."

     "My king, you must not underestimate me." He let a chuckle slip, and from the floor the yellow lance appeared; as if summoned, and launched it into his hands almost like it had been shot from a canon that sent its ammunition vertically into the heavens. He was quick to block Arthur's strong and otherwise near-fatal attack.

      People gasped, taking a brief second to process what happened. It didn't take long for them to cheer, and the warriors had almost forgotten that they had a crowd of onlookers, for they were too focused on one another. Diarmuid thrust the lance forwards but stopped himself mid-lunge, as he did not want to hurt his king.

     "Are you holding back, my good sir?" Pendragon grunted as he fended off an attack.

     "I do not wish to hurt you." He huffed, holding the yellow lance with his right hand and wiping the sweat from his brow with the other.

     "We dare you." Arthur laughed nonchalantly, almost as though saying he was not at all offended by Diarmuid's sudden halt.

     Diarmuid sighed loudly as he bent to retrieve his red lance and rose. "As my King so wishes," he said, bowing low.

     "Entertain Us."

     The tall man couldn't help but smirk at the king's remark. "Of course, if my King so wills it."

     The fight began once more and he would not hold back this time around, for he had so allowed him to fight his best. It was only fair if he was to show the royal how good of a knight he could be.

     The invisible sword clashed against his yellow lance once more, but this time around; he used his red lance to trip the shorter man. The king fell to the floor and Diarmuid held the yellow lance to his throat. "I bet you had never seen that coming, My King."

     "And We bet you that you had not seen Our sword either." Arthur laughed as the foreigner noticed that the hilt of the sword was indeed pointing to his chest and he was suddenly aware of the sharp, cold metal point on his sternum, millimeters away from slicing him.

     Diarmuid dropped the lance and lent his ruler a hand. The male declined and quickly stood up in one swift and graceful movement. Arthur turned to the crowd and viewed the people as they cheered. "Should he be Our knight?" He asked the crowd and the people cried in approval. The king smiled in agreement. "And so, there is but one last step," he announced.

     Arthur turned back to the lancer. "You must be of noble blood."

     Diarmuid's smile dropped and he licked his lower lip to moisten it, suddenly feeling dried out and distraught, like a shark stranded on a beach, disoriented and left to die. "But my King, I was told that—"

     "It matters not what you are told. Are you of noble blood; yes or nay? A simple question; one you must answer." Pendragon interrupted him, surveying him a couple of times, his gaze dropping from the taller male's eyes to his feet and back up once again. He seemed perfect for a knight; stature wise and his fighting style was not severely flawed. But rules were rules, and even if Arthur was the King; he too was a subject of the Law.

     "Nay, your highness." He gulped.

     "Then," the monarch sighed, "there is nothing We can do but to send you away, courageous subject." Arthur said the lines as if they were well-rehearsed, said many times in the same clear and solemn tone, but his eyes conveyed genuine sadness.

     "Your Highness, please—"

     "We will not change Our mind." King Arthur Pendragon blinked and turned away to leave the Arena. "You must surely understand," he said, "it is but the Law that wills it to be so."

     Diarmuid clenched his jaw and grit his teeth; he had traveled all the way from Ireland to England because of complications he would like to forget, but his heart was always into knighthood and he had so wished for the sovereign to accept him.

     Heart pounding, he yelled in such a way that hushed all whispers, in a way that betrayed his raw emotions of frustration and desire, proclaiming, "I am the son of Aengus!"

     The blond male's head whipped towards Diarmuid and he had a look of slight horror and disbelief on his face, eyes narrowed as though seeking out lies. "Aengus? You are his _son_? Impossible! He hath no son, no...heir."

     "His adoptive son; I still do not know of my real father. But Aengus is my protector and caretaker, I am by law his son, his only heir," Diarmuid replied to the king's harsh remark.

     "What is it that you call yourself, First Spear of Fianna?"

     "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne." The response was loud enough for the Arena to hear, echoing in through the stands of the spectators. The King's eyes of emerald jewels widened in shock.

     "You must surely be jesting."

     "I am he whom I have announced."

     "Then why should I accept you as a knight of Camelot if you so have abandoned the Fianna? Will you not do the same to the Round? And We so were informed, you were dead." Camelot's King stepped closer towards the male and eyed him once more. "The beauty mark under the right eye and amazing lancing skills; you indeed are Diarmuid." It was a whisper, more to himself, but the other man nodded.

     "Fionn and Cormac have been the ones to exile me, my King. I am only alive due to my father's aid." It was hard for him to admit it, but it was something that he thought was important, especially with the fact that it was the truth and he could no longer keep secrets from his newfound king.

     "But We are not your King, Diarmuid. I have much faith in both Fionn and Mac Airt and if they have exiled you from Ireland, then it is best for Us to exile you from Camelot as well."

     " _No_ ," Diarmuid pleaded, "my King, please do not do that. Fionn has taken a personal dislike to me that I have no fault in. Please, give me a chance to prove myself a worthy Knight of Camelot."

     "There is only so much you can do." Arthur bit his lower lip and sighed, something seemed to pull him to be a little more merciful with the male. "Alright, Irishman, but you must tell Us why you have been exiled. Come along now." He turned his body towards the castle. "We must hold an interview."

     Diarmuid followed in pursuit and never did he mind that they had left the Arena. Firstly, there had been no actual tournament, only some fights to entertain the King, since he so decided to make an appearance. He had been helped upon a horse and Diarmuid had climbed his own, to follow the king back to the castle with the rest of the Knights of the Round; they were to aid him in his decision making and direct him to making the best possible choice for Camelot.

     Upon arriving, they were ushered to the throne room and all the Knights took their place at the Round Table. Diarmuid was made to stand before the King as everyone had to face in his general direction. The many pairs of eyes fell upon him and he immediately became uneasy, it was evident that people did not like him much from the very beginning, but there was a kind face in the crowd, a blond man that sat close to the King himself.

     Arthur Pendragon sat at his respectful chair at the table and faced it towards the male. The interview _—_ or interrogation _—_ would commence, and Diarmuid would have to answer all the questions with every bit of information the royal and the council needed in order to make the educated decision. "There are much too many questions that We would like to ask you; but let us begin with the most simple, my fair Knight of the Fianna: Why is it that you have come to Us?"


	5. May Your Dreams Become Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> I hope that you are all enjoying the story so far; it has been a rocky start, but I would hope you all feel the story is flowing smoothly.
> 
> Sincerely, with eagerness,
> 
> Ms. AtomicBomb

     "If there is anything," Diarmuid began, "that I want more than anything in my entire life; it is to be a knight. That is why I have come." His voice was clear and audible for the entire table—of what looked like twenty or thirty men—to hear him speak. No one said a word until the blond man next to the king whispered something and the entire table was alive with whispers; roaring and breathing, like the soft flame of a hearth, speaking of doubts and hopes for the male.

     "Yes, We understand _that_." The King sighed loudly. "But _why_ Camelot and why not any other kingdom, maybe Cornwall, or what have you?"

     Diarmuid licked his lower lip and realized that his heart was pumping at a higher rate than usual. In fact, it seemed to be thumping audibly. How everyone in the room did not hear it was a miracle in and of itself. "Well," he started once again, "I have always admired Camelot and its way of ruling. Your specific rule, my king." He had opened his mouth to speak once again, but he was interrupted.

     "But, We are not your King, Diarmuid. We are practically your enemy. Thus I ask you a second time; why should We accept you? It makes little sense when you are the son of a god. You could be in any kingdom you want, you simply say the word, and Aengus will snap his fingers and your wish is granted." The King sighed, "Why have you chosen Camelot, when you know much too well, that even the strongest of spells do not work on me?" The King's emerald eyes bore into his own, beseeching, curious.

     Diarmuid had kept silent until the King was done with his words. "Because Camelot is just. I have found that the Fianna have the same principles and wishes for the country as the Round Table, and thus I have a yearning desire to rejoin these principles and ethics," he said, eyes lighting with fervour, "To be a knight is my calling, but because of things that occurred to me without my consent, I am stripped of my wish and my vocation. My love for Knighthood exceeds any other love I have, but my loyalty will stay but with one that does not betray me in return. I would have followed Fionn and Cormac to the ends of the world, if they will it.

     "But—" he broke off, breaking the smooth façade of a confident knight, and if only for the slightest of moments, the barest of seconds, allowed no more than a glimpse of the rather nervous and worried man he truly was. "But how can you love those that want your head on a pike? Never had I thought that jealousy and folly would taint my trust and reverence for my master. Never had it crossed my mind that my life was but a game to those I had pledged allegiance to. And after near-death, I was restored to my natural mentality and no longer remained under a petty spell. My trust in Fionn was tarnished; he had desired my death and destroyed my loyalty and dignity in Ireland for a woman. As much as I love my country, I can and will never return, and so I seek refuge in Camelot."

      At this point, his amber eyes glittered, with the promise of a dedicated knight who would follow whom he chose to the ends of the world. "I wanted a new start, where I could embed my loyalty, where I could trust those around me; Camelot offered hope for me.

     "When I heard that you have knights with no noble status, I realized that you are the most fair King that I have ever heard of. Never has there been this kind of equality and love for the people of a country. I came hoping that I could forget my past, forget all the pain I had ever endured. I have no home, and I wish Camelot to be my only home. I want it to be where I can return from battle and rest, where I feel safe and where everything I will ever know will be an adventure."

      "You mentioned a spell—what is the sorcery of which you speak?" Green eyes burned into him, like some kind of iron plate branding his very soul. _Piercing,_ that was the word. More piercing, dare he say, than his own lances.

     Diarmuid blinked, his eyes falling as he collected his thoughts. "Years ago, when I was younger still, I met Youth. It was a rainy way and there was a knock on the cabin door. No one wanted to answer it, but the knock persisted. I could not fall asleep, knowing that there was someone outside in the pouring rain. And as it is only natural, I opened the door and—much to my surprise—I saw a rather deprecated woman, older than myself and rather short compared to many other women. If she had once been lovely, time had not been kind to her, so I had thought." Gooseflesh ran up and down Diarmuid's arms, the eerie thought of that night leaving the chill of the rain and something else that he couldn't quite place.

     "I allowed her in, and since my bed was next to the fire place I had lent it to her for the night. In the early hours of the day, I sat up from the floor to view a beautiful young lady sitting on the bed, and with a few words of thanks, she kissed my cheek.

     "She introduced herself as Youth, and insisted for me to marry her. After I declined, she kissed my cheek again, and with laugh that seemed less mocking, and more wicked, she whispered with a tone that must have bewitched many at that point, _'You will never find someone that truly loves you, and you will come back running into my arms once again.'_...

     "Her green eyes held a depth of ancient knowledge, of magic. I remember very well because since then, I have acquired a new companion, and I can never rid myself of it." He smiled ironically while pointing to the beauty mark under his right eye. His smile dropped and he continued, "About a year ago, I met someone I wish I never had. Beautiful, yes, but smitten. Falling for me due to my beauty mark, she teased and teased me, trying to make me fall for her, in one night. The night of Fionn's and her marriage, she bewitched me. _That_ is why I am here today."

     "Oh, was that young lady Gráinne? We had heard and even had been invited to that wedding, but the Saxons did not allow Us to attend. Now We know how much of a chaos it truly was." The king suppressed his laughter. "So you swept her off her feet?"

     "Not my intention, and never had I felt a single thing for her, if it weren't for her géis. After seeking help from the High King, he exiled me. Trying to flee the country, I was cornered by the Fianna, where Fionn _'opted'_ for peace, and after a couple of weeks, he asked me to hunt a boar with him. I could have never felt so accepted in my entire life. This was when he deliberately killed me... They say that a man—"

      "Who drinks waters from the hands of Fionn will live." Arthur smirked. "A legend, is it real?"

     "It is, my king, very true indeed. And he could have saved me, if he had truly forgiven me. But envy is the most horrific beast, and as he would pick up the water from the creak near by, he would allow it to slip away with my life. I died at his hands—how can I trust such a master? Betrayal, at my own liege's wish. I no longer desire such a ruler. But you, you are fair and just. At your highness' command; I would lose my life for you."

     "Does your loyalty to Ireland restrict that?"

     "Ireland has betrayed me, turned its back to me, forgetting of a loyal servant who I was—it will never want me back."

     "Well," Arthur smiled, "now that you have told Us your entire life story, the council and We will discuss the decision and We believe that it could be much better if you would kindly exit the throne room. Now, if you would be so kind," the male glanced towards the door, and Diarmuid understood his cue to leave. He straightened his back, and exited the room.

     It had not been much of an inquiry, if anything, it was story telling time. No one had asked him many questions. And everything was laid out in the story before them. His intentions and history were clear, nothing was left out intentionally. He had been waiting for a rather long a while, only hearing murmurs and white silence from the big room. Letting out a shaky breath, he tried to prepare himself to keep on moving. Maybe he would simply settle down somewhere, give everything up... perhaps even knighthood.

     The enormous door creaked open, and a messenger came out to greet him. "The king calls for you." A scrawny man, he was. A small moustache growing thin atop his big lips. Dark chocolate curly brown hair as neat as it could possibly be, and eyes almost as dark as the night, blinking ever so often; the male led Diarmuid back inside the room.

     "Well, Diarmuid, the council and We have decided that you may remain in Camelot. There will be no exile, but you must prove yourself worthy of being a knight. The Round only allows the most loyal and the most strong; you must demonstrate your greatness to Us and then you will either be Knighted or overlooked. Will you be able to accept?"

     "What ever my King wills, I will do. My loyalty lies within you." Trying to suppress his pure and utter joy, he prayed that the King would accept him to be a knight and that he would be able to prove himself.

     "Good. We hope that you are right. We will have a room in the barracks prepared for you. You begin in the morrow by cleaning the stables, of course you will do this for a week and then, depending on how pristine you are able to keep them, you will be promoted. This is all done whilst you train."

     "Yes, my King, I will do as you please. I give you all my gratitude." He knelt before the king, bowing his head and standing when told to do so.

     Diarmuid was ushered from the throne room and then taken all the way to the soldier's quarters, which was a simple section of the castle—the left wing of the castle, to be more precise. Rooms were shared with two to four people, but depending on one's rank, they could have their own room. The Irishman's room was rather small for two bunk beds, but he was the lowest rank at the given moment, so he didn't argue.

     In fact, he remained absolutely ecstatic.

     "The left bottom bunk is yours, the others can meet you by nightfall. The King wishes the best for you and hopes you to be up by the break of dawn. He will check on you at least once a day, maybe twice if you are lucky." His escort had been the blond male that had always kept an eye on him. "My name is Gawain, I am a cousin of the King and I could not help but fancy you. You hold such values that make me much too proud to be a knight. I know that you have not said anything of what you believe in, but I can see it in your face, so I thank you...for coming to support his majesty."

     "Thank you for allowing me to be here. I offer my sincerest gratitude to both you and his Majesty." Diarmuid bowed to Gawain and the other male dismissed it with a flattered chuckle.

     "There is no need to act so formal, see me as a friend." With a glance out the window, Gawain noticed how the darkness had settled upon the night. Candles and torches were being lit in the halls in the absence of daylight. "I must return to my own quarters. I will see you in the morrow, then." And with a simple goodbye, the male was gone, disappearing behind the door not to be seen for the rest of the day.

     It was quiet and he could barely hear the outside world. It was very refreshing for him, to be able to start anew—forgetting what had happened to him countless times before. He was truly starting to feel like he belonged somewhere, and his heart hoped that Camelot would be that place.

     Because if not, what other place on Earth could he call home?


	6. For Knighthood

_This is in order to be a knight_ , he told himself as he raked the hay inside of the stables. To be quite frank, it smelled horribly disgusting; the aroma of sweat and waste from the horses hung in the stale air. No breeze could have saved him. He would need a hurricane, perhaps, if he would rid himself of the fragrance.

     He did not mind having to clean the stables at all, but it was rather tedious that every few hours he would have to return to clean it because people did not know how to handle horses. Whenever he left the stables to go clean something else up, it would only take a minimum of four hours for some Knight to call on him to clean it up again.

 _They are Knights!_ he would scream to himself, _They ought to at least be able to keep things tidy for a day._ But goodness was he wrong.

     "Hello." Diarmuid looked up from the hay—quite a bit irritated and exasperated—in order to see the owner of the voice. "It has not really changed in here; I see absolutely no difference." It was the king, which had startled the young man. "But I know how hard it can be to keep the stables clean; especially with all these knights. You needn't return every few hours to continue cleaning it." Diarmuid was quick to fall to his knees in a deep curtsy. "You may stand." The King smiled; he was not wearing his cloak or his crown. Diarmuid figured that they were probably left at the castle.

     "Your Majesty." The Irishman nodded in acknowledgment of the royal before him. "What else would you like me to do?" He tried not to fidget as he awaited an answer.

     The King looked around the room and tried to find something that would make the ex-knight productive. "The horses—bathe the horses," he stated. "Heaven only knows how long they have yet been washed for—that is likely one of the reasons as to why it smells horrid in here." The monarch scrunched his nose in disgust whilst he waved a hand in front of him as if to clear the air in his vicinity.

     Diarmuid nodded as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Yes, of course."

     "And after you are done with that, you might want to take a bath of your own. You've got—" the King paused and made an expression of pure revulsion, "—all over your face and clothes."

     The Knight-in-training suddenly became embarrassed as he gulped in regret. "Yes, my liege." He nodded and watched the king leave the stables.

     "Oh, I almost forgot;" the royal glanced at Diarmuid over his shoulder upon reaching the door way, "you have been cordially invited on a hunt tomorrow." He smiled, so sweet and soft that it made Diarmuid's heart warm up slightly. Perhaps, he mused, the King was a nice person after all.

     After the king had left, he took off his shirt and turned it inside-out in order to clean the (hopefully) dirt off his face. He wondered how unprepared he had looked in front of the King and mentally kicked himself for it. Rolling his neck to soothe his muscles, he also stretched his arms. If the King had invited him on the hunt, it meant that the king had taken a liking to him—which eased his mind a little bit.

     Deeming it time to bathe the horses, he gathered a bucket and some soap. He thought it best to go to the river to clean them, rather than take from the well that the people used as a source of water. He started with the three horses that remained in the stable and then he would continue with the rest later on in the day. Two brown horses and a black one were led to the river, without failing to catch the eyes of many ladies.

     He found the river refreshing upon reaching it... it _was_ a hot day after all.

     He guessed that bathing the three horses was not going to be hard at all, but he was wrong. Instead, the many pairs of eyes dug into his back, which was when he figured that women had gathered on the bridge to watch him. He could hear the squealing from where he stood, next to the river. Wishing to ignore the smitten women, he filled the bucket with the cool water and took a cloth in his hand. He began with the black horse that stood to about his very own height. "Well, friend, we have company; try not to look," he mumbled as he began to bathe the horse with soap and water.

     "Excuse me." He heard a gentle voice from behind him. Turning around, he noticed a rather short lady; her lips pursed into a straight line.

      "Yes?" He blinked down at her, noting she did not wear an elaborate dress, but a simple garment that seemed more comfortable, and allowed for more movement. On her head, she bore metal that looked much like a helmet from a suit of armor, but he did not really understand why she was wearing armor in the first place.

      She pointed at the horse. "He is mine." Her violet eyes were trained on the male even though she pointed at the animal behind him.

     "Pardon?"

     "Yes. I was at home and then—out of the nowhere—someone had stolen my horse. Therefore," she stated rather firmly, "I have reason to believe that the horse is mine."

     Diarmuid furrowed his brows and crossed his arms over his chest. "How is that if it belongs to a Knight?"

     "Then the Knight stole him away. Hopefully it was not you; it would be a shame if someone so handsome would do such a thing." She took a deep breath, her lilting accent betraying pure discontent. "He is mine and I can prove it; his lower legs are all white, save for his front-right one. Is that not right, Pierre?" She looked at the horse, who had replied with a perk of its ears. "If you clean his legs, you will see that I am right."

     The Irishman dropped his arms and bent down to clean the horse's feet and after doing all four legs, he noted that she was right. "Well..." He stood from the floor and turned to the female, a little worried now that the thought of a loyal knight stealing a horse slipped into his mind. "Miss, it _is_ your horse."

     Quick as a flick of a whip, her almost sour expression broke into an enormous grin, and she gave a short laugh at how disappointed he looked. "It is not mine," she giggled, beaming, "it is Gawain's stallion. He told me to play a trick on you—" another giggle, "—and you did fall for it."

     Diarmuid looked beyond bewildered, as he was a bit confused.

     She extended her hand so that he could take it. "My name is Jeanne. I am from France, but I come to make relations with the Kingdom of Camelot quite often, so much that I have made friends at court. It is a pleasure to meet the Irish Knight that everyone is talking about." She lowered her hand when she saw that he did not take it, and then she felt a little awkward. "I am sorry for lying. Do you need some help?"

     He finally gave her smile. "A lady should not dirty herself," he stated.

     She laughed again, "I used to be a ' _peasant_ ', as you say here, a country girl; I do not need to worry about getting dirty."

     "If you insist, then," he nodded and noticed that she seemed unaffected by the beauty mark under his eye, unlike all the other ladies that swooned on the bridge.

     "So it is true that that is a love spot, _non_?" She asked, her light brown brow lifting to hide behind her bangs.

     He nodded. "Yes, and it is a pain," he laughed as he handed her a cloth so that she too could bathe the black horse.

     "Good thing I do not have one of those; I would probably cry myself to sleep every night," She tittered as she began to scrub the horse's head.

      They spoke for a long while as they had bathed all the three horses and even walked back together to bring more horses to bathe. She was a very sweet girl, honest as well. He had even asked her about why she wore armor and she had gladly replied. "It is because I am a Knight—in France, that is."

     "Gawain, Diarmuid and We will go towards the North. Lancelot, Tristan and Bedivere will travel towards the East; we will meet you by the Lake, is that clear?" The King stated as the men all nodded. "Whichever team gets the most game wins." He smirked, as if entertaining the idea that there was a legitimate probability that the latter group could possibly out-hunt them.

     The two groups of knights parted and then Diarmuid followed behind the King on a horse they had lent him. "Jeanne told me she met you." Gawain decided to make a conversation as the king went ahead of them.

     "Yes; played me a fool, she did." Diarmuid replied, making sure to sound completely unaffected by the trick that had been played on him.

     Gawain let a chuckle erupt from his throat and he looked over at the Irishman. "Yes, I told her to do that for me," his smile was sly and light, "Do you not fancy her? Is she not a beauty?"

     Diarmuid remembered her sweet smile and beautiful gem-like eyes. "She is rather beautiful, and a great person as well."

     "What does His Majesty think of our French Knight?" Gawain called out to the king that remained quite ahead of them.

      A grunt came from the male, "Stop talking nonsense," he stated. "Now shut your mouth before we lose the game."

      Gawain laughed in response and winked Diarmuid's way as they continued their journey in silence. The tall trees filtered the light of the sun as they all got down from their horses to continue on foot. The King had wanted to catch his own deer, because bunnies were much too small for him. They were lucky to even get three bunnies, but the King had _wanted_ a deer.

      It was only after treading through the woods for some time that out of the corner of his eye, Diarmuid spotted the deer that the young King had awaited. It stood with caution, gauging if it should take flight or if the humans were no such threat, all while attempting to keep hidden from the men that circled the area. "Your majesty," he murmured lowly.

      "What is it this time?" The man rolled his eyes as he turned towards Diarmuid.

      "Your deer is here," he smirked and dipped his head in the direction of the animal.

      The King became silent and smiled on his own accord of the satisfaction that the deer gave him. "Be silent." He brought a thin finger to his lips and held the crossbow in his hands tightly. He brought it up slowly and cautiously as he aimed at the deer. The King was about to let the arrow fly through the air and hit the animal until a certain blond male had made the wrong movement and the deer ran off like the wind.

      " _Gawain_!" Arthur moaned in exasperation and glared at the taller male. "I almost had it."

      "I will get him for you, my King." Dairmuid said as he gripped his lances tighter.

      "There is no need; we should be off anyway. The sun is going to set soon."

      "Please, my King." He insisted and the King took a deep sigh as he gave a nod.

      "Make it quick." As soon as the words left the Monarch's mouth, the Lancer bolted off after the deer that somehow was still in sight. "And do not get lost!"

     The deer was fast, but Diarmuid had much more endurance than the animal and he had caught up to it as they had neared a creek. The male was quick to launch his yellow lance across the air like some sort of javelin. It skimmed the poor animal and drove itself into the creek. Diarmuid was much too distracted by the splash it had created that he had not noticed the animal had changed species. No longer was it a deer— _no_ —it was a human.

      Green eyes stared back at him, something so mesmerizing and beautiful, as the woman stepped closer. "My dear!" She extended her arms and walked towards him, her red ringlets blowing back with the gentle breeze.

     Suddenly feeling dizzy and befuddled, he stumbled towards her and she wrapped him in a tight embrace. "My love, it is alright. I have you now." She said as they both slid to the ground and she held him to her bosom. "I was wondering when we would meet again. Did you miss me?" she murmured in his ear.

      "Youth..." he hummed and looked at her. The world around him was blurred. Everything was glowing white, and indistinguishable. Except for Youth. She was as radiant as a star, her hair sending out red-washed light, her emerald eyes shining with its depths of ancient knowledge, glittering with arcane power. Somewhere in his mind, a small, almost unheard voice was screaming that something wasn't right. But he ignored it, because there was so much beauty to look at in the world around him.

      "That new king of yours is rather tedious, is she not?" Youth let out a twinkling laugh, her chest rumbling underneath his head. "A lady like her should not rule. Though, I will get you a deer, even if it satisfies her... I mean you have to make your king happy too, right?"

      Diarmuid could not quite catch her words because he had felt sleepy and tired. His bones ached and his lids threatened to slide shut with the comfort of the woman that held him in her arms. He was lulled to sleep by the crooning world around him, almost like a mother's song, and he fell unconscious without even wondering why he had even approached her.


	7. Branded

     It was the ringing in his ear that had awoken him. He groaned, his head feeling heavy and the sleepy notion continued to cling to his mind. He felt sick, his stomach a little uneasy and it only made him feel worse. He sat up slowly and immediately felt a sharp stinging sensation emitting from his back. Diarmuid could not hold back the cry of pain that left his lips.

     The pain in his back was unbearable and he began to wonder what on earth was causing him so much harm. His surroundings were unknown to him and he was having trouble understanding what had occurred for him to end up sitting in a strange place with his back aching greatly. He felt cold and slightly afraid of what he did not know.

     He recalled hunting a deer and nearing a small creek, but there was nothing else that made him piece any happenings together. His head ached to the point that there was even pain in his eyes and then he began to think if he had been drugged. Groaning a little softly, he let his feet touch the wooden floor and he stood rather unsteadily. Pain quickly emitting to his brain and then he concluded that he had probably hit the floor too hard whilst he fainted—a concussion. Using the bed he had been sleeping on as a fall back net, he took a step and immediately he heard a tick.

     The room he was in was not large, but there was enough light leaking in that it made him conclude that he was not being held hostage. Plus, the bed had been rather comfortable. The room was not extravagant and it was evident that who ever was _helping_ him—a rather delicate word—was a poor fellow. Only a nightstand was below the small window, a seat next to it and the bed. The floor was all wooden, but there was a brown carpet that almost matched the wood in the center of the room.

     The sound of the floor boards scared him and he fell back onto the bed. In an instant, a woman came through the door, that also made a weird sound. Red hair fell into ringlets reminding him of fire and bright green eyes blinking; worry evident in the irises. "Thank goodness that you are awake!" The beautiful woman clapped her hands together. The freckles on her cheeks and nose were very visible due to her pale skin—she was beautiful. Even her voice was as soothing as a melody.

     Blinking a couple of times, he held his aching head, "He...llo?" He greeted, quite unsure of who the woman was. He was trying to match her features to someone he knew before, but he could not remember who she resembled. Her beauty was beyond him and he knew that he would be able to match a face like hers with a name, but the headache was causing him confusion. He knew her, he swore it.

      "Good afternoon," she smiled—her pink lips moving so sweetly, "How are you feeling now?" Her eyebrows were knitted together in a worrying expression. There was something that did not sit well with him, but he overlooked it as he kept his eyes locked with her grass green gaze. Her features were so mesmerising for some reason, and it made him a little pensive.

      "My head aches, but it might not be anything bad," he found himself answering a complete stranger, his mind slightly scolding him for it, but there was a part of it that did not mind. He did not even flinch when she approached him to check his temperature. Her hand was soft, delicate and little bit cold; she would probably think he had a fever—but that did not even matter. His eyes were trained on every move of hers. The way her hips swung when she walked towards the night table, the steady way she breathed and the smell of lavender that surrounded her; they were all floating around his head.

     "Well," she spoke once more, her voice lulling him back to slumber, "I will go and make you some soup, and I will get a potato for your fever, alright?" She turned back to him from the nightstand, her eyes blinking only a few times.

      "Thank you..." He did not know her name and thus looked at her a little dumbfounded and confused. How did she even find him in the forest? Let alone drag him all the way to her cabin without any trouble.

      "Oh!" She gasped, "Forgive me, dear Knight, I am Sileas, daughter of John the store clerk." She introduced before leaving to get him what he was in need of. She seemed like a lovely young lady full of spirit and kindness, but there was still something that Diarmuid found strange deep inside.

      "Alright," she spoke as she entered the room once more, "You have to make sure to rest well. I am sure that you are not feeling one hundred percent well—what with that brand on your back and all."

      "Brand?" He was quick to catch something so odd, "What do you mean?"

      Sileas took a deep breath and turned towards him after setting the food down on the nightstand. "I am sorry to say, my dear knight, but you have been branded. It is some sort of Celtic pattern with strange words on it. I haven't any idea of what it might be, but it is certainly not humanly manufactured," she spoke as her voice remained sweet, "I found you in the forest, your back was bleeding and I found it branded."

      "The forest? You found me in the forest? Was I near a river?" He asked as he remembered the beautiful scenery, the deer in front of him; the weight change of when he launched his yellow lance across the clearing.

      Nodding, she stood straight and then proceeded to sitting on the seat near the window, "Did someone attack you? An animal maybe?"

      Shaking his head in disapproval, he tried to think back. "What is the time of day?" He asked as he noticed that the light was too weak and the angle of the sun was a little irritating.

      "It is almost evening," she replied with a simple smile.

     "Sunday?"

     "Monday."

     Diarmuid's orange hue gaze grew within seconds and he stood from the bed a little too quickly that it had made his head ache. "I must return to Camelot," he had figured that the King and Gawain had returned to the castle to explain how he had gone missing.

      "Camelot?" Sileas questioned, delight evident in her green eyes and small amazement on her features, "You are from Camelot?"

     "Yes," there was no real answer for the question because technically he did come from Camelot, even if he was an Irishman.

      She tilted her head a little bit, "Are you going to leave today?"

     He nodded in a short reply and shut his eyes tightly as he rubbed his temples to calm his pain down. "Indeed," he assured, "Thank you for your hospitality, Milady Sileas." He gathered his belongings and he blinked at her as he stood by the door.

     "But you are hurt," she protested against his leave.

     "I am sorry," he apologised, "but I must return to Camelot."

     "You are in no condition to ride a horse,"

      Diarmuid sighed and gave her a serious look, "I have only been branded—God only knows by who—but I have not been seriously injured," he held his voice in monotone, "I will be leaving now."

      Sileas was unable to stop him when he had quickly placed his tunic on (with much trouble), and walked out the room's door. She followed after him as he stood by the front door and bowed in her direction. Diarmuid had thanked her for the hospitality and then he had turned around. Opening the door slowly, he heard her sweet voice, "The deer you hunted is near your horse, and so are your lances."

     He shot his head to face her once more, confusion flooding his features. _The deer?_ He swore on his honour that he had missed it. There was no possible way that his loance had hit it in such a way when he witnessed the yellow weapon skim it lightly. Turning back towards the exit, he left the small cabin and saw his horse—the familiarity making him comfortable once more. As she had said, the deer was right next to it, still as a rock and bleeding from it's side.

     "I wish you the best of luck, Diarmuid," she waved from the doorstep as he had readied his horse, the deer behind himself and lances strapped to the saddle.

      After giving her a nod of acknowledgement, he turned his horse towards the forest with the reins and headed towards the castle's city. It took him a long while for the sudden realization to hit him; she knew his name. He was much too far now to question her, and that thought lingered in his mind for the entirety of the ride; _how did she know his name?_

      His arrival in the city had been long awaited; he had been missing for two days now, and the King had thought that he had had enough of his knightly training and so he had left. But upon his arrival, with a deer on his horse, it had sparked the King's interest. Even if it had taken Diarmuid two days to catch the deer, he had done as he had promised.

     "Diarmuid," the king had a small smile of satisfaction on his lips, "I thank you for the deer, how were you able to catch it? Tell us," he beckoned. It was evident that the King was super excited to hear the long and action packed story.

     Diarmuid frowned, and then he looked away from the King, as so not to face him when he was embarrassed, "My King," he took a deep breath, "I...I do not quite recall." Once the words had left his mouth, the entire room started chattering and his headache returned.

     "Whatever do you mean?" The King furrowed his brows, rather bewildered by the answer.

     He blinked. "I remember throwing my lance towards the animal, but I could have sworn that I did not quite injure it."

     Arthur frowned, "But the deer is here, you had to kill it."

     "I awoke in a Cabin," Diarmuid breathed, "a little close to the creek that I had cornered the deer at. Apparently, I had passed out," now he was even more embarrassed, "and _somehow_ I had caught the deer."

     Once again the King had become even more confused as he looked on to the male, "Well then, you still brought the deer with you; that is all that counts." He could see the genuine embarrassment and truthfulness in the other male's orange eyes.

     Copper eyes were widened. "Thank you, My King." Diarmuid bowed because he had nothing else to say, he was even taken aback by the King's words.

     "Arthur!" The doors of his chambers burst open, causing him to jump in sudden fear and a line of ink crossed the _very_ important document. "Get that man out of here!" The feminine voice demanded, pale green eyes mixing with a tint of blue stared the King down.

     "Morgana," the King sighed and then turned to his sister, "Yes?" He was leaving behind his papers and let his feather pen drop next to them.

      "I want him out!" She hissed between clenched teeth, "He is but a splotch of dirt on this clean castle!"

      "Morgana, _please_ settle down and take a deep breath because I know not what you speak of," he blinked in patience.

      The woman balled her hands into fists and grunted loudly. _How was he so stupid?_ She continued to repeat over and over in her mind. Taking deep breaths—which were full of rage—she tried to look calm, "One of your recruits needs to go. I can feel _it_ and it is so very _annoying_." She was still mad because he could hear it in her voice, but she was trying to please him.

      "What are you blabbering on about?"

       The door opened again, this time in a more gentle manner, and the King's trusted friend entered, "What the Lady Morgana is trying to say, is that... well... A recruit of yours has been marked."

     "Marked?" Arthur looked at Merlin, "What?"

     "There is a bloody brand on them! Warning others not to touch such a _prized possession_ ," Morgana rolled her beautiful eyes in annoyance. She was beginning to get irritated at the King's obliviousness that it was driving her insane.

      Arthur furrowed his brows, "Which one of my recruits would have something like that?"

      "The Irish one!" She retorted.

     "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, sire," Merlin calmly replied after Morgana's burst of anger.


	8. A Rather Scary Sorceress

     It was not the first time that he was ushered through palace hallways in such a quick manner; but it was in a much more respectful way. The last time that this had happened to him, he was exiled from the country—hopefully it was not the case again. Although his heart was thumping a bit too loudly, he tried not to think of what the worst case scenario was; his head on a pike for something he did not even know about.

     The page presented him and then he was allowed into the King's private chambers. Upon stumbling inside, he noted the room to be very grand and luxurious; as was rather obvious for a King to own. He noted that there was two chambers; the main being for greeting subjects and the one to the far right for his actual sleeping chambers. A long dinner table—probably for twelve people—was placed in front of him, and there were only four chairs; three of which were being used. The king sat on the far right edge while a beautiful woman with black curly hair sat in the middle, and on the left edge was another young man.

     "Welcome, Diarmuid," the King greeted as he stood and the two people did as well, out of manners, "I would like to congratulate you on your hunt," he gave a warm smile.

 _Alright, this is good,_ Diarmuid smiled and nodded, "Thank you, your majesty,"

     "But," there was a change of tone in the monarch's voice and Diarmuid feared the following words, "there seems to be a slight problem," he turned to the other two people at the table.

     The lady looked at him with pure rage in her pale green eyes, and then averted her gaze immediately, "You have been branded," she had tried to keep calm.

     Diarmuid's eyes grew and he tilted his head.

     "So you knew?" She hissed between clenched teeth, "Get him out of here! **_Out_**!"

     " _Morgana,_ " the king growled her way and then turned to Diarmuid, "Forgive my sister; she is only watching out for Camelot. Merlin, if you would please,"

     "Yes, your majesty," Merlin, the man at the far left bowed and then approached Diarmuid, "I am positive that it was not your intention to keep this mark from us, as I suspect you do not even know what it means."

     "I do not," Diarmuid shook his head.

     "Good," Merlin smiled, "could you please show us where it is?" He asked as he looked the Irishman over.

     "Of course," Diarmuid nodded and then proceeded to turn around, "It is on my back, I would have to remove my tunic." He then warned after recalling that there was a lady in the room.

     "Just take off the tunic, I want to claw that mark out if I need to," she growled in anger.

     Diarmuid flinched and did as she asked. He heard the clacks of her heels as she approached him and he felt a chill run down his spine as goose bumps formed all over his body. He then felt a cold slender hand on his back, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

     "I knew it! It is that annoying Irish witch!" She yelled it, and Diarmuid jumped once more as he felt the sharp nails begin to dig into his skin, "I will do the honours," she hissed as she was ready to claw the brand out of his shoulder blade.

     "Morgana." At the sound of the king's voice, Diarmuid was relieved but still felt the tension of the nails on his back; she was ready to drag her nails down it but she dared not disobey the king.

     "Morgana, it would be best to lure her in instead, do you not think so?" Merlin was the one to talk now and then Morgana released the pressure in her hand but still kept it over the brand on Diarmuid's back.

     The lady groaned, "It is so very annoying and thus I want it out."

     "But do you not want to get rid of Youth?" The young white-haired wizard added.

     Diarmuid shot his head back towards him, jerking his upper body in the general direction. The movement had caused Morgana to scratch his back, but not hard enough in order to draw blood, "Youth did this to me?" He did not know why he had felt so betrayed but he did.

     Morgana scoffed rather loudly and then patted the male's back, "Never trust a witch like her, son," she rolled her green eyes. He should have known what he was getting himself into. But maybe it was not even his fault, a handsome face like his could gain the look of many annoying witches; it was but his misfortune.

     "If there is anything that you can do to take the brand out, please do it," Diarmuid pleaded as he did not want yet another curse on him. He had had enough of witches and spells.

      "We cannot do that without inflicting pain upon you," Morgana answered, "And as much as I would love to personally skin it off, I cannot do anything but obey my brother."

      "Please do it." Diarmuid looked at the king with much anticipation and plead, he was sure that he would listen.

     "Not today," Arthur sighed, "I am sure that Merlin can find a way without skinning you." He then looked at Morgana and she rolled her eyes as a short-term response.

     "Alright then," Morgana waved her hand in the air and made her way to the door, "just tell me when I can get it off of him, yes?"

     "Of course," Arthur sighed, "We would also need your help."

     Morgana smirked and then bowed before her brother and waved at the Irishman, "I promise that when that idiotic mark is out I will not ever claw your back again—in anger that is," she winked and then left a very horrified Arthur and Diarmuid behind.

     Although his back was slightly stinging, he decided that it was best to head to the training grounds and keep in shape before he was sent to clean anything else. Upon arriving at the grounds, he was glad to hear the sound of clashing metals; it was most calming for him—it recalled him of the good old days.

     With the sun high in the sky and the Knights—and knights-to-be—practicing, he had almost forgotten about the mark on his back as he lifted a sword in the air. It had been quite a while since he held one and it felt good on his shoulders, that it seemed to help him calm down and forget everything about witches. He rolled his shoulders and wished to swing the sword. After a knight had offered to be his partner, they begun to spar.

     "I thought I would have found you here, Diarmuid," he heard the familiar voice of the King call out to him and he quickly turned around to face the royal.

     "My King," He headed to bow but Arthur stopped him with a simple word.

     "No," he spoke, "When we are training, we are equals and I am simply Arthur. I am only 'King' when in the throne room and wherever else I need to be, alright?" There was a genuine look on his features and Diarmuid nodded.

     "Yes, si—Arthur," The Irishman was quick to recognize and fix his error.

     "Good. Just remember that I am your friend right now." A smile formed on the man's lips, "I came out here because I wanted to apologize for my sister's...sudden outrageous behaviour. She is usually not like that at all, and I swore that your curse was not effective towards her as well...I must have been mistaken. _Anyway_ , I am sure that she has made you quite uncomfortable, but I can _hopefully_ assure you that she will not do it again."

     "Do not fret, Arthur, I have gotten worse than what your sister has said to me," Diarmuid laughed a little bit light-heartedly. Yes, it was something he was ashamed of, but the young king looked much more like a scolded child that he felt compelled to lighten his mood.

     "Really?" The royal furrowed knitted his brows together in some sort of wonder, "Like what?" He was clearly curious and Diarmuid had no other choice because it _was_ his king's wishes.

     Diarmuid gulped and ran a hand through his curly hair, "They are much too inappropriate to say out loud, so I must tell you in secret."

     Arthur nodded quickly and leaned towards the other male. After he had heard worse than what his sister had implied, well, he brought a hand to his open mouth to cover the surprise. "Women actually said this to you?"

     "Repeatedly," Diarmuid hung his head in shame, "I fear."

     "Are you certain?" He was still in disbelief as they were some questionable things.

     "I swear upon my honour," Diarmuid landed a hand on his heart as he spoke the words.

     "My, my, my...but I really do apologize for my sister. As a princess of the blood she should not be saying such words; I too was caught by surprise with that comment of hers."

     "It is quite alright, I have already forgiven her because I am sure—as you have already stated—that she thinks only of Camelot's well-being and she was only attracted to my curse," he spoke in a tone that was not at all offensive to the king.

     Arthur took a breath of relief, "Thank goodness; I was afraid you would hold a grudge against her or something."

     "I would never," he spoke the truth because it was the King's sister and if he disliked her it was almost like disliking the Crown, and he would not dare do something so disloyal to his king.

    They continued to talk, but it was then of adventures they each had had before and the King was very intrigued with the stories that Diarmuid had to tell. It was good that they were getting to know one another because Diarmuid could see that their friendship was building and he also got to see another—much more kinder—side to the young king while it helped Arthur gain insight of his future knight's life.

      It was rather evident that Arthur liked Diarmuid as a knight and any of his close knights and friends could tell you that. He had seemed like a trustworthy person from the beginning and his return from the hunt had proved him to be an even more loyal knight than he had seemed. Arthur was already looking forward to fight amongst side of him; he would prove to be a worthy soldier in the battlefield.

     "Arthur," a voice called and then a blond enthusiastic male popped out from behind both Diarmuid and the King, "Morgana tells me that there's a witch upon us," he chanted as if it was a joke.

     "If anything she's the witch," Arthur retorted with a slight roll of his eyes, "She always likes to tell my knights about everything," he spoke as he turned to Diarmuid, "Even if it's about the chef having constipation."

    Diarmuid could not help but laugh at the comment, "Really?" He was amazed with the king's language.

     "But it is a good thing she only tells my trustworthy ones. Goodness! If she told all of them, what would Camelot be like?"

     "The center of other castles' gossip and entertainment?" Gawain reentered the conversation.

     "My good lord! I would be the king of Cam-laugh-a-lot," Arthur shook his head and they all gave a chuckle, "Good thing Morgana knows her boundaries."

     "She always does what," Gawain began,

     " _Is in Camelot's best interest at heart."_ Both Gawain and Arthur finished off with a mimic of Morgana's posh and high and mighty tone of voice, making Diarmuid titter at such cute and childish behaviour coming from a knight and a king.


	9. Not That Easy

     Merlin walked through the hallways of the castle; he had read a bunch of books on how to remove brands like the sort, but nothing seemed to have stood out or applied to this particular case. It was sort of frustrating to have such a presence in the castle and it made him more eager to remove it. Everything he had looked at was very dangerous and would cause the poor knight harm; and Merlin would never allow that.

     "Are you having trouble?" A feminine voice called from the darkness between the pillars of the castle halls, "I would guess so, it is a strong spell for even the strongest of wizards."

     "Morgana," Merlin sighed heavily, "do not make a fool of me; I simply do not want to hurt him." He was telling the truth or else the mark would have been gone long ago.

    Morgana emerged from the darkness and approached the young wizard, "If it were me, I would take it off however I could."

     "But you are not the one the King put in charge."

     " _But_ ," the lady sung "you do belong to me." A flash of excitement ran through her pale green eyes as she waited to see the young man's response.

     Merlin blinked, "What did you mean by what you said to Diarmuid?"

     "Ha," she chuckled, "am I seeing jealousy?"

     "I am just wondering, that is all." He shook his head in denial.

     "That was a joke to see if _that idiot_ would respond." Her eyes had rolled at the mention of the witch.

     The male furrowed his brows together, "Youth? You wanted her to hear your 'deceleration'?"

     "Mhm." Morgana nodded slowly, "Hopefully she hears it and comes crawling to me."

      The young wizard shook his head in slight disappointment as she was acting like a child and proceeded to hook his arm around Morgana's. "You have to help me find a way," he stated, "without hurting Diarmuid, that is."

      Morgana laughed and shook her head. There was one way... but it would be hard to get Youth into the castle without a rampage. She took Merlin's hand and led him towards her room, where she had a small collection of books. Skimming through the spines of the many books, her green gaze settled upon one. Leather back with golden writing; _The Harmless_. She pulled out the book and dusted it off for she had not used it in years.

     Merlin looked at her with confusion as she opened the book and began to look through the pages. She quickly skimmed and stopped here and there to actually read. Her fingers moved fast and so did her eyes, that he was scared to ask what she was doing.

     "Here." She stopped flipping pages and placed the book on her table as she pointed at something inside.

     Merlin peaked in to see what the female was talking about and his eyes raced over the page. He brought a hand to cover his open mouth as he gasped a little, "Morgana..."

     "That seems to be the problem... it is going to be rather hard," she sighed as she noted that the male sat down on the chair with the book in his hands. Morgana rested her own hands on his shoulders and gave him a soft message as she leaned her head on top of his, "I was thinking of it from the start but it cannot work if he even feels the slightest bit of anything for her."

     Merlin shook his head in disapproval, "I do not think this is a good idea."

     Morgana huffed loudly as she rounded the chair to face him, "It is the only idea, Merlin. What else are we supposed to do?" Her voice was strained as she was frustrated at the situation and the man before her.

    "Anything but this," he averted his gaze from hers, knowing much too well that if he looked at her he would give in and this was not the situation in which he would do whatever she said.

     "Then do you suggest that we kill him instead? We rip that off? Burn it off? Cut it off? No matter what we do to the brand, it will grow back, Merlin. He will not be able to get rid of it! If he wants it gone, we would have to kill him, unless..."

     "Morgana, we cannot do this..." He argued, his brows furrowed and he rubbed his right temple.

     "What?" She screamed, "You do not think I am powerful enough? You aren't powerful enough? Do you think that _we_ are not powerful enough for this?" Her voice was harsh and one could tell she had been offended.

     He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation over their poor fight, "It is not that, it is just—"

     Morgana took a deep breath and knelt in front of him as she took his hand in hers, "It is the only way, Merlin." She was calm now, breathing steadily and she held his hand tightly. "We can do it, I know we can."

     Merlin gently tightened his grip on her hand and lifted her from the floor as he stood from his seat, "I know," he mumbled as he kissed her hand, "I know." And that was what scared him more. He wished this was not the only way.

     Diarmuid wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm as the King poured two cups of water. The sun was high in the sky and he was burning up, not to mention how they had been sparring a little while before. He had already removed his shirt but that was no help at all and he wondered how the King was holding up with the many layers of cloths and armour.

     "How is that brand thing holding up?" The king smiled a little bit sorrowfully as he glanced at the male next to him. The days were getting warmer and it made him think about if his borders were well protected or if he needed to fortify his outposts more and more.

     Diarmuid cringed at the mention, "It is alright, I guess." It had been a few days since he had been summoned into the King's chambers and he wondered when Merlin would have the cure that would rid him of Youth for sure.

     "You know, I have never had a spell on me and I can only imagine how you feel. It must be really hard for you..." the King's voice was soft and pensive, as if he was trying to feel the same despair that the male before him had felt almost his entire life.

     "No, I'm quite alright," he assured, "but sometimes—when I think about my past—I do care about what Youth did to me. Or what I, myself, did. There are times when I regret being such a nice and chivalrous man, but people who are on the right path never have it easy, and I think I have learned that the hard way."

     Arthur chuckled and gave the man beside him a sincere smile, "I guess you are right, sometimes I even have a hard time. It was so challenging for me when I passed the law that anyone could be a knight, it is still challenging since some Lords look down upon me for that. It is as if I am not a King but rather a small child that the Lords think they can discipline without a second thought. "

     "I think that what you are doing is right. Allowing anyone to become a knight is a privilege I wish Ireland had."

     "Are you not scared that I will exile you?" Arthur raised his eyebrow, "You cannot mention Ireland." His tone was solemn, a little sorrowful if one heard it correctly.

     Diarmuid bit his lower lip and shook his head, "Forgive me, my King."

     "It is alright. I know how much you must miss Ireland, but you cannot forget which of the countries are being merciful to you."

     "I would never forget the mercy that Camelot has showed me, I will always thank you for that, your majesty. Forgive me."

     Arthur patted the male's head and gave him another smile as his had dropped at the mention of the other country, "I know, my Lionheart."

     Diarmuid lifted his head and furrowed his brows, not understanding the statement, "My King?"

     "You _will_ be my Lionheart, yes?" He chuckled, "Because I already have a lot of knights, it is not like I need another simple one."

     "If my King so wishes," He nodded with a smile on his lips, relaxing his brows and taking a deep breath. He had felt very relieved at the man's words and he even had to retain his smile so that he did not seem too overjoyed.

     "Good, because I am in need of another loyal Lionheart. Hopefully that brand does not cause you to disobey me."

     "I will never allow that, sire."

     "Of course, I never have doubted you, Diarmuid. But enough talk about loyalty and knighthood; give me your advice because I know how you have had it with women, so I have to ask for your help." The short male rubbed the back of his head in a bit of embarrassment.

     Diarmuid's eye grew wide and he nodded quickly, "Of course, anything that my King wishes."

     " _Arthur_ ," he corrected, "Well, I am engaged but I really have never been close to a female other than my sister, and well my sister is something else; I hardly even consider her a female."

     "Arthur," his tone was confident and he liked that the king was so familiar with him, "A lady is always a Lady. You may not see your sister's feminine side often, as she is very comfortable with you, but no matter appearance or personality, a lady is a lady."

     A smile graced the young king's lips, and he licked them to try an avoid it. " _Alright_ , I guess so. But what I mean is... well, my Fiancee invited me to a picnic, and since I have no experience with women, I have no idea what to do," Diarmuid chuckled and the royal gave him a glare, "Do not laugh at me."

     "I am not laughing at you, my king, I am laughing at myself because I too do not know much about women. My encounters have been brief and quite horrible... except for one, but that was long ago. I had fallen in love once, not the love under a Geass, but real love. We were to wed when I was younger but she fell ill... I saved her life but at the cost that we could not be together. Then Youth came along, cursing me and finally Gráinne that lead to my death."

     "Oh, I thought that you might have had a better way with women but I see that you are worse than me."

     Diarmuid laughed and nodded in agreement, "Yes, that is rather true... But what about Sir Gawain? How is he with romance and whatnot?"

     "Gawain? He is a ladies-man, but when it comes to his morals...well, he will probably tell me to take up a mistress."

     "Oh, do you not love your fiancée?" He did not know why he had asked, but the words had just decided to leave his mouth without warning.

     Arthur took a deep breath, "A king's duty is to his country." He confidently stated, no sign of disapproval in his voice; as if he rehearsed it in front of a mirror everyday.

     "But surely that does not apply to love?"

     The royal ran a hand through his hair smoothly, "It is but a marriage out of convenience, if I daresay, everything a King does is for his people."

     The Irishman furrowed his brows and tilted his head, "But you are a just king, and I would think that you would marry out of love, since your ideas are quite liberal themselves."

     "What I did with my Knights is a little different because I still did it for the people of my generation and onwards, my marriage to Guinevere is the same, I only aid the future generations. A King's duty is not pardoned for one being a just king, I have to marry her for the good of my people because everything that I do is on their head. If I shall marry out of love, what then would my people endure?" He licked his lips and then stood, "Shall we pay Merlin a visit? He should have something up his sleeve by now."

     Diarmuid followed after the king, after placing his tunic back on, that is. They both made their way to the castle halls and proceeded to Merlin's office, which was on the right wing of the castle on the second floor. Although it was quite a bit of a walk, Diarmuid was only eager to get the brand off himself.

     It was clear that Merlin and Arthur had a strong friendship, because the king was not even announced when he entered the young wizard's office. There was some shuffling before Diarmuid followed behind and he saw Morgana seated on the wizard's desk, her pine green dress fanning around her and bringing out her beautiful eyes. Her black hair was still cascading down her her shoulders, even if the flowers and gems she had to decorate it looked as if they were about to fall, like leaves flowing down a river.

     "My King," she nodded at her brother and then glanced at Diarmuid, behind her was Merlin kneeling next to the desk.

     "No kneeling," Arthur smiled at his friend, "Anyway," he began as the male stood to his feet, catching a glimpse of red on the wizard's cheek, "I am still not comfortable with your relationship... But, we actually came here for the solution to this brand thing."

     Morgana almost let out a chuckle and then composed herself before slipping off the desk and walking over to Diarmuid. As she stepped closer, her pupils would narrow themselves, and then she _gently_ ran her hand—and nails—along his jawline, "There is one way," she retracted her hand and dug her nails into her own palm.

     "And that way is...?" Arthur raised and eyebrow at his sister, not really understanding why she was being so familiar with Diarmuid.

     Merlin rubbed his neck and bit his lower lip, "Not a very good idea."

     "But," Morgana raised her voice a little and turned back to Merlin, "it is the only way, if you want to get rid of it for sure, along with that love spell as well."

     "And that way, again, is?"

     "Lure her in, and then _kill_ her." Morgana stated it as if was as simple as biting an apple, her tone sending both Arthur and Diarmuid chills down their spines.


	10. The Walls of the City

     "How do you reckon we will kill Youth? She is not as weak as one might perceive." Diarmuid spoke, taking a deep breath as he steadied his gaze ahead of him, the long stone hallway still well ahead.

     The king gave a shrug, armour clinking against itself. There was a small smile on his lips, green eyes bright and stride full of determination, "We have something she does not."

     "Dignity?" The ebony haired man questioned, hard cheeks lifting in a smug smirk.

     Arthur laughed—no, _giggled_ —and it sounded sort of, _cute_? Surely men did not sound cute, right?

     "Not dignity, although that is a plus." The blond's smile was fully wide now, "I must admit, it was a very bright addition. Yet, it is not what I meant." His tone was still light, almost cloud-like.

     Diarmuid returned the smile. There was a time Fionn and him would interact like such, a smile on the man's face while they simply goofed off. There was a time, far away, where his beauty was not a problem, when women did not always cage him and where his fellow knights would not send green glares in his direction. A time when he was truly content with life… but that was much too long ago.

     He shook his head, ridding the memory of his previous lord from his mind, instead, focusing now on the bright young man in front of him. Such potential was held in a person. He was deathly young, about the age of nineteen, but his mind was marvellous; he was made for greatness. Arthur could rule the world if he wanted to, anyone would bow down to his equality, justice and morality.

     "A weapon, far greater than anything we could ever hope for." The royal's hand immediately dropped down to the pommel of the sword strapped to his waist, "I posses only the best of swords, if nothing Merlin or Morgana do hurts this woman, surely my sword will. My sword sees no enemy it cannot defeat; magic is but a joke to it."

     Amazement lit up the Irishman's face, his eyes wide and eyebrows lifted but furrowed tightly, "A single sword?"

     Arthur nodded, "Why, yes, it is quite a weapon. It may even be able to destroy something as big as the Gate of Babylon."

     "Really? That much is possible?"

     Another nod, "Though, I do not know how true the statement is. Merlin assured me, but he is not the creator of this sword. Only the Lady of the Lake would be sure to know."

     Diarmuid always got curious—let that not be confused with nosy. He arched a brow and bit his cheek, trying to catch a glimpse of the weapon that the King tightly held while speaking so highly of it.

     The King grinned, "I assume you would like to see the treasure I speak of."

     A shy nod.

     A chuckle escaped His Royal Highness' lips, before he drew the sword.

     The sun reflected off the steel, catching Diarmuid in the eyes and causing him to shut them. When the sword was now in front of him, he opened them. Steel was carefully crafted, designed perfectly with intricate carvings. The pommel was spectacular, gold decorating it along with a couple of jewels.

     "Would you like to hold it?" Arthur asked in a soft voice, eyes looking up at the Irishman.

     Diarmuid shot his head towards him, "Am I allowed to?"

     "Oh, certainly! In fact, I offered."

     It did not take long for Diarmuid to reach towards it, allowing himself to hold onto the navy-blue pommel, his fingers wrapping hesitantly around it. The intricate designs only softly brushing his fingertips.

     "It is truly beautiful; I have not seen such a sword before…" He mumbled lowly, his breath leaving him as if he were in front of a lovely woman.

     "Caliburn is gorgeous, isn't she?" Diarmuid had handed the weapon back to it's owner, awe still on his features. Not failing him whatsoever.

     Diarmuid nodded in response as they continued their way down the hallway, "Might I ask, if Caliburn is to have negative effect on magic, why do you not use it on me? I know that you do not want to hurt me physically, but if you could rid me of it with that sword, there would be no need to lure in Youth."

     "Diarmuid," the King hummed, "I am not here to hurt my knights. My sword is to liberate them of the chains holding them down. Even if I must use this sword on the sorceress, I will not hesitate. My people always come first."

     Silence surfaced for a while, nothing erupted from any of their mouths as the royal slowed his step to a halt. Diarmuid followed not a moment's longer. Turning to his knight-to-be, he reached out to the taller man, landing his hand on his shoulder, "When I accepted you as a my subject, I accepted the problems you were involved in; which means that no matter what it may be, as your King and friend, I will be standing in front of you."

     Diarmuid could not, for the life of him—not as if he wanted to, though—hold his smile back. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip before his smile grew, taking half of his face, "Your majesty, you are the most honorable lord I have ever had." Following this, he dropped onto one knee; right there in the middle of the hallway.

     A blush grew on the young King's pale cheeks, he gulped before managing a nervous laugh, "No, there is no need to do that." He did not waste time in helping up the taller man—his face completely red throughout the whole ordeal; even his ears were burning up.

     "But, my king—"

     Arthur cleared his throat, "It is but my duty to keep my people safe," a cough came from his lips, "Now, how about we visit the tavern? I heard from Gawain that there would be a special dinner tonight to mark the three-year anniversary."

     "Anything that my liege would want." Diarmuid bowed, a deep and grateful bow.

     The king let out yet another nervous chuckle, "Again, it is Arthur." He spoke before they continued down the hallway and onto their next destination.

     The night was as ordinary as any other, the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds while the city was alive with evening bliss. The torches were lit all around the streets, and some were even lined with flowers and such. There was a constant chatter of people that were enjoying the warm summer night, the distant sound of crickets filling the air amidst the lively music.

     The king was casually dressed, a dusty hat on his head to shield his face from any onlookers. His clothing was most likely prepared for such occasions, it seemed the king liked to go out quite often with his cousin.

     "Hey, hey, hey!" The boasting voice of Gawain boomed through the tavern, "There's my lil' cousin with no back bone!"

     Diarmuid gasped at the words he heard, his head flickering towards the King who simply chuckled.

     They walked towards the round table in the corner of the room where Gawain and what seemed to be the French soldier sat. Arthur quickly sat down next to Jeanne, smile on his lips as he greeted her and kissed the back of her hand. Diarmuid followed in the same pursuit.

     "I had nearly thought Gawain lied to me when he said you two would be here at any time." The Frenchwoman laughed.

     "You do not trust me?" Gawain grumbled over, his hand tightening around the mead.

     Jeanne shook her head, "Oh, it is not that I do not trust you, per se," she shrugged innocently, fluttering her lashes a bit, "But, rather weary. You have lied to me a couple of times now." She spoke before bringing a wooden mug of coffee to her lips; the lovely smell floating about the table.

     Arthur and Gawain responded with chuckles while Diarmuid stared at the woman, not exactly getting the joke because she seemed to be honest. No one commented on Diarmuid's silence, instead, they changed topics. There was a lot of talk about training and Gawain's encounters with a few women in the city. The Irish knight soon came to know that Gawain was quite the ladies man (as previously stated by the King) and Jeanne was nothing about that life. She, on the other hand, was quite religious and kind. Here, Diarmuid also found out that the King loved having a drink at the end of the week, the evenings he could pretend he was just any other person.

     Gawain cleared his throat, "So, I heard you stole your master's betrothed, is that a rumour?" He asked, eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips, "Are you going to seduce Guinevere as well?"

     Jeanne elbowed the blond in his side, making him groan out before letting out a cough. Her innocent smile remained even after the table went dead silent, "Please excuse him, he forgets his boundaries quite often. Do not take his words seriously, he thinks himself a jester."

      "A horrible jester, I would have had you tomatoed if you were my court jester," Arthur huffed and the table lit up in laughter—including Diarmuid himself.

     The Irishman rubbed his neck and took a sip of the mead that the King had offered him, "Grainne and I did disobey our lord. Part is my fault for having this stupid curse, and part of it is hers because she also cast a spell on me. I would not have escaped with her if it were up to my own will."

     "What is it with you and witches?" Gawain grumbled, rubbing his side to ease the pain, "Women are literally all over you."

     Diarmuid chuckled in a nervous manner, "It is not something I am proud of. It becomes an issue in my life more than a blessing."

     "Do not look over your shoulder now, Diarmuid, but there is a lady that keeps looking over at you." Gawain mumbled, leaning over his drink and wiggling his eyebrows, "She is quite the lady too."

     The Irish knight never learnt how to be subtle, thus, he turned around quickly and caused Gawain to groan, "I said not to look."

     Vibrant red curls encircled the pale and freckled face of Sileas, bright green eyes locking on his. Her lips stretched into a small smile, her hand lifting in a shy wave. She then took a step towards them, her brown dress blowing a bit in the light breeze that swept into the tavern through the open door, "Diarmuid," she called just as she had reached them, "what finds you here?"

     "Uh," the dark-haired man glanced over at Arthur looking for a response in his eyes.

     "Friend's night out," his sentence was finished by the only female sitting with them for Arthur was hiding his face under the cap.

     Sileas' smile grew wider, "That is lovely. How are you feeling? Is the brand still hurting you?"

     Everyone looked up at her in bewilderment—except for Arthur as he kept his eyes downcast on the food before him—and she returned their gazes with a smile, "Oh, where are my manners," she mumbled with a silly tone, "Forgive me. My name is Sileas, daughter of John the Store Clerk. I helped your friend back in the forest when he was injured. Let me tell you how heavy a knight is, I could barely get him to the cabin." She shook her head and huffed as if she was currently dragging him.

     Jeanne let out a giggle, "They can be quite stubborn as a mule when they are awake as well."

     Hearing the giggle of the French Knight made Diarmuid's brow furrow, she sounded quite like Arthur's giggle a long while ago. _Cute_ , to say the least.

     "What brings you to the Tavern at such a time in the evening, Sileas?" Gawain interrupted the knight's thoughts, "It is rather late for such a beautiful woman to be wandering the city."

     Sileas laughed, "Not as late, but I come looking for my father, I had hoped to find him here. It is a shame he is not here but I am glad to have seen you once again, Diarmuid."

     Diarmuid's thoughts lingered again as she waved them goodbye, _How does she know my name?_


	11. Peculiarity

     Diarmuid was silently seated on a boulder, watching the knights train. It had been a few days since they encountered Sileas at the pub and Diarmuid had been pensive since. The blazing sun had tired him quickly and his training partner had suggested that they take a break since he had not once been fully into the spar, which was nothing like him. He analyzed the swift movements of Gawain, who was sparring with Jeanne.

     The young lady seemed to be new to all the fighting, her moves were slower and much more hesitant. On the other hand, the male was smooth in his steps and swings; elongating them just for Jeanne to catch up.

     Diarmuid's mind went back to the woman at the bar. He stilled, mind replaying his two encounters with her. There had been something off about her but he was un able to place his finger on it but it bothered him still. He rubbed his face, shutting his eyes closed for a while.

     "How are you feeling?" The voice of his king caught his attention, he removed his hands from his face.

     "Hello." Diarmuid mumbled, "I am…" he sighed, "doing well."

     The king shot him a look, "Sounds rather convincing." He deadpanned.

     Diarmuid ran a hand through his hair and following to rub his face again. "Forgive me."

     Arthur went to pat his knight on the back, "Now, son, mind telling me what is making you look quite glum."

     He laughed in response; light and honest, "Meaningless things. I need not worry you over them."

     The blond bit his bottom lip and nearly growled, "Diarmuid, how many times must I tell you that a king is always willing to help his knights? A king's duty is to his country," he spoke, this time the phrase did not sound so forced, "and therefore his people. I wish to know and you cannot deny me that. _Surely_."

     Diarmuid replied with a smile that he tried very much to hide, "No, surely I cannot."

     "Go on, then."

     He liked Arthur; he was always attentive and gentle. He was everything Diarmuid could wish for in a king.

     "I have been having this odd feeling. Peculiar, really. Sileas, the young lady we met at the tavern—"

     " _Her_." Arthur interrupted him, "Yes, I might have an inkling as to where this is going."

     Diarmuid blushed, "Oh, no, _no_. I have no feelings for her, my king, in fact; it is rather the opposite."

     The king furrowed his brows, blinking at Diarmuid before clearing his throat, "I never meant it that way. Now, what were you originally going to say?"

     " _Ah_." He bit his lower lip, cheeks turning even darker at such a misunderstanding. "I was pondering what occurred the other day at the tavern. You see, I find it odd that she went."

     "Why would you?" he tilted his head in response, "She explained she was looking for her father."

     "Yes, but," Diarmuid's gaze fell far from the king, "I never told her my name and yet…"

     Arthur's grip tightened around his wooden weapon. "Is that so?"

     "Or perhaps I did. I just do not recall it."

     "What was her name?"

     "Sileas…why?"

     "Sileas…" Arthur echoed. He lifted his head and stared at his knights practicing before he stood, armour shining in the daylight. "May you please excuse me for a while? I will return."

     The young knight looked up, and he could have sworn that the sun casted a sort of halo around the King's head. His hair shun gold and blew softly in the wind as if dancing the sweetest waltz. He looked divine and Diarmuid's heart swelled for no more than a second until he caught himself. His king almost resembled an angelic being—nothing of this cruel and dark world. He was unattainable.

     Diarmuid shot up, cheeks burning hot. "Of course, I will gladly wait."

     The monarch smiled at him, lips stretching and a small dimple on one side of his face surfacing. Light kissed his face the way a lover would in the early morning hours. One of his green eyes twinkled like a gem while the other remained shrouded in the darkness of a shadow. Then, he moved, taking a step away from Diarmuid and off towards the castle.

     Diarmuid stood watching him walk away.

     "What was that about?" The voice of a young man caught him off-guard.

     He flinched.

     "What seems to be troubling you?" A woman this time.

     Finally calming his poor heart, he looked over at the young lady, confirming it was Jeanne before he spoke. "Nothing," he shook his head, "we spoke about—"

     "Sileas, was it?" Gawain, the one to scare him, rejoined the conversation.

     Diarmuid nodded, sitting back down on the bench. Jeanne joined him, sitting on the grass in front of him while Gawain kept standing.

     "Have you spoken with her since the last time we met?" Jeanne asked, head tilting. A certain and truly unintentional charm to her every movement.

     It was odd. _Truly bizarre_. Even if he thought about the occurrence with Sileas, he could not help but notice how similar Jeanne and Arthur seemed. May the knight even dare say, how similar they _acted_.

      "No," Diarmuid finally answered, scolding himself repeatedly in his mind.

     "Then why would you two be speaking of it?" She prodded further.

     He rubbed his neck. "I… I have this strange feeling."

     The young woman's violet eyes grew and she gasped, "You also felt that?"

      Gawain frowned, "Was I the only not to feel a thing?"

     "I did not exactly feel it then," Diarmuid explained, "I felt it afterwards. As if she already knew of me since before we met face to face."

      Gawain's frown deepened, "Really?"

     "She knew my name, but as I recall, I never gave her my name."

      " _Well_ , you are rather famous around here now, I would be surprised if she did _not_ know your name."

     " **Oh**. I forgot about that."

     "You are one lucky bastard." Gawain groaned, "If only every woman fawned over me."

     "I am not a bastard!" Diarmuid argued.

     Jeanne giggled, "He did not mean it literally, Dia."

 _Dia,_ he hadn't heard that nick name in quite a while. He was unsure of how to feel, he missed it but he also wanted to tell Jeanne he would rather not want her to call him by it. He opted to stay silent.

     "Maybe you met someone that looks like her, which could be the reason," Gawain spoke.

     As he was in deep thought, he noticed that Youth's face couldn't come to mind. Whatever memory he had of her, he could not visualize her face. In fact, she was faceless.

     "I…" his voice soon faded.

     "Do you think she is of any danger? She seemed rather sweet but…" Jeanne's lips stretched into a thin line. "But, she seemed a little _too_ sweet. I, well, I uhm. I am not sure exactly."

     "If you mean her looks; she was much too sweet indeed."

     " _Gawain_ ," Jeanne glared at the flirtatious man, "her attitude."

     "Sileas…" Her eyes bore into Diarmuid's mind while he ignored the other two who bickered. Something must have lurked behind them. It was odd that she had not tried to pull a move on him or even gawk at him. She might have looked smitten, but certainly had not acted like it.

     Morgana blinked at her brother, leaning back on the king's chair in his office. She had a habit of doing that, even in the Throne.

     Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and leaned onto the desk. "I hope that I am not sounding cynical or anything and thus, what is your verdict?"

     "Well," Morgana began, shrugging her shoulders, "It would depend on your relationship with him."

     The king's eyebrows knitted, "What do you mean?"

His sister frowned, "Be honest with me, Artie. I know magic and what not does not affect you but I admit he is very handsome and charming…would you not agree?"

     "Fine, yes _he is_ but—"

     "But nothing, dear. You do sound rather cynical. Who would have thought that the King of Camelot would fall for an exiled knight…"A sly and triumphant smirk grew on Morgana's face.

     "Fall? I have fallen for no one and you of all people would know that, _sister_."

     Morgana let a scoff slip, "I do know you much more than anyone…"

     "Are you here to question me? Or should I order you to answer my question."

     A thin and dark eyebrow rose, her voice curious, "An order as a king or a sibling?"

     "A king."

     "Oho! You _are_ cynical." She clapped her hands in delight, her head resting back on the chair and amusement in her eyes. Her cheeky behaviour slithering out since no one important was around.

     "Answer your king, Lady Morgana."

     Morgana watched her brother with slight irritation; she might have been older but the kingdom was naturally inherited by Arthur. "Since we are on formal terms… Yes, the name means youthful. Is that what your Highness wished to hear?"

     Arthur rolled his eyes, pushing himself off from the desk. "A suspicious coincidence, do you not agree?"

     The Princess crossed her legs. "Jealousy is a monster, My King. In fact, I would suggest that you let him be. A young girl will not harm him."

     "I would think you, of all people, would be suspicious. An Irish witch named Youth and a simple Scotswoman named Sileas…"

     "Many ladies can be named Sileas."

     "A bit too much of a coincidence, considering that after Diarmuid was found by such lady he had the brand but not any time before. _Abnormal_ …"

     "Cynical."

     After fixing his cape, the king straightened his belt and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Why thank you, Lady Morgana. Will the Lady be joining Us for dinner?"

      She smiled sarcastically, "Have I told you how much I _hate_ it when you use the royal 'we' when we are alone?" He voice sickly sweet. "I loathe it," she spat.

     "We are aware." Arthur smirked, "It was done on purpose. You know that I dislike you teasing me."

     "It is not my fault you fancy the man."

     "We might just have to _throw_ you out of the office."

     "Ha! Try."

     "Is that a challenge?"

      "Take it as you may, little child."

     Thus pursued the roughhousing. The two fully grown siblings began the playful quarrel. Morgana ran around the room while Arthur chased her. The lady slipped on the carpet, but caught herself in time before she hit the ground, buying herself time by throwing a few books that lay upon the desk at her brother.

     Arthur shielded himself with yet another book, and caught up to his sister. She was on the other side of the desk, opting for a safe escape but her calculations told her that her brother would reach her in any situation she chose.

     As a last resort, she took the only book the King had on his desk and threw it at him. Precisely, it bounced off Arthur's armour and knocked down the inkwell.

     The two adults watched in horror as the midnight black ink spilt all over a rather _important_ document that lay on the desk, tainting the parchment and soaking it.

     "I am so sorry," Morgana gaped.

     Arthur looked up from the paper with anger. "Do you even know how important that was?" He reached towards the ink.

     "Look, I can—" She was stopped as her brother's hand brushed her cheek. She blinked and let it sink in.

     She too dipped her hand into the puddle ink and reached for her brother after having gasped.

     Giggles filled the air as the two siblings painted each other with the black ink. They were smeared and covered all over. Their laughter died a little while Morgana conjured up the best cleaning spell and fixed the room—and the document—right up.

     "What about us?" Arthur asked as he looked down at his tainted armour and right out the window, noting the setting sun.

     "We enjoy a warm lavender petal bath. When was the last time we did?"

     The door burst open a frantic knight at the door. "Forgive me for not announcing myself!" The knight panted, still unaware of the fact that the king and his sister were unpresentable. He cleared his throat and stood at attention. "An urgent message for you, your highness!" The knight's eyes grew and he quickly turned around. "I apologize, my king."

     "Worry not." Arthur sighed at the thought that the bath would have to wait much longer. The stared at his sister until she mumbled a few words and he was rid of any ink stains.


	12. A Looming Threat

     Seated at the throne, Arthur glanced over at Merlin. The wizard wore his cape, as was custom of him, and there was a frown on his lips. Arthur fixed his crown and straightened his pose before he waved his hands at the guards to open the doors, allowing a steady and tall soldier entrance to the room.

     "My King." The soldier immediately fell to one knee.

     Arthur nodded. "You may rise."

     "My King," he held a hand to his chest, easing his breathing as he stood, "there has been word from Sir Galahad."

     Merlin shifted and caught Arthur's attention. He looked over at his court magus and expected him to say something but when nothing was said, he turned back to the knight before him. "What type of news?"

     "On the subject of Francia and South Sussex," the man never once looked the king in the eyes, but he lowered his head further, "The battles have become bloodier and there has been many fatalities."

     Arthur shot from the throne, face twisting in confusion and what seemed to be anger. "Pardon me?"

     The knight did not so much as flinch before taking a deep breath, calculating his following words. "Many of our troops have perished as we have tried to kept peace between the two Kingdoms. Sir Galahad suggested we cease trying to keep the peace; it seems only to hurt our forces."

     Arthur set his hand on the pommel of his sword, "How many troops of ours have perished?"

     "He did not state. Sir Galahad was very disturbed and injured at the moment. There were at least sixty knights lost at the hands of both parties."

     "Sixty?" The King turned back to his magus. "How many had we sent?"

     "A hundred," Merlin answered, "Mercenaries included, we did not risk our troops for fear it would cause tension between South Sussex and Camelot."

     Arthur's brows furrowed, "That means there are less than forty knights present still?"

     Merlin nodded.

     The King tensed, knuckles whitening as he tightened the grip on his sword, clenching his jaw. "Call for a meeting of the Round. We must further discuss matters of the Francian War. Please do make sure that the Lady Jeanne attends this meeting as she is of main concern. Do not let word escape of our loss."

     Finally turning to the knight that was already awkwardly standing there he asked one last question, "Is Galahad to survive his injuries?"

     The poor soldier took a deep breath, "They do not look to be life-threatening but they could cause severe pain if left untreated."

     "I implore, send a doctor for him; the best you can contract in Francia. Worry not of the price, I will send the funds."

     A titter, light and sweet. Lowering the sword, she fixed her gauntlet. "I very much apologize," she sighed, sitting back on the fountain.

     He stared at her. The setting sun shun against her armour, painting a warm orange glow upon it that would soon disappear along with the sun. "Are you truly apologetic?" He asked, removing his right vambrace and setting it on the floor next to him. He stretched, falling back on the grass behind him.

     She shook her head slowly, slightly hesitating. "Not exactly," she laughed, "When you fell, I felt remorseful but seeing as you are not injured, I am pleased with my handiwork."

     He smiled, "You have been very diligent, I think you might even overpower someone."

     "Gawain," she blinked, "I highly doubt that."

     He laughed, biting his lip and looking up at the sky, "You have gotten stronger."

     "You flatter me," she waved her hand, "you need not do that."

     The sun fell below the earth and breathed its last for the day. They sky still lightly lit turned darker by the minute, a fresher breeze settling over the castle gardens. A thick blanket of stars draping over the sky and hanging high above the two young adults.

     "Jeanne," he blinked, "what if…"

     She pushed herself off the fountain, sheathing her sword, not having heard his whisper. "I think we should head back, the day is much too old to be in the gardens. They will be releasing the dogs very soon."

     Gawain stood, sort of relieved he was left unheard. "Yes, I am already missing my bed and a bottle of wine."

     Jeanne laughed again, a laugh he always welcomed. "You are much too silly," she said as she headed towards the castle.

     Catching up to her, he grinned, "Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, my lady?"

     She rolled her eyes just as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her along with him. "I have an early rise tomorrow, if I drink, I will surely cause trouble."

     He nudged her head, ruffling her hair and making it a complete mess. "Then," he let go of her, "tomorrow we could share toasts." Crickets began to sing and the breeze ruffled the leaves.

     She frowned, "I would rather not drink tomorrow either."

     "Not _drink_ , Jeanne," he laughed, nudging her, "I mean toast. As in _toasted_ bread."

     She pushed him, "You are such a jester."

     He bowed just as they entered the castle. "I will accept that as a compliment, my lady." Facing the stone hallway, he spoke, "Will we spar again tomorrow?" The empty halls were a little chilling, and it made him uneasy. The darkness was something he never had liked, ever since his childhood. Why had the torches not been lit yet?

     Jeanne shook her head. "Sadly, I will not have time. What about the day after?"

     He sucked in air, " _No_. I have some business to take care of."

     She smiled, "Then we must reschedule until further notice. Well," she breathed, "I bid you adieu."

     He waved, giving her a bright smile. "I bid you a lovely evening. Will we be having toast tomorrow?"

     Jeanne nodded, "We can invite Diarmuid as well."

     Gawain grinned, "I will call him. See you then," he bowed. He was always so teaseful with her but she enjoyed herself when around him, he would always make everyone smile.

     "Sir Gawain!" The voice echoed against the stone walls, the patter of footsteps filled the hallway, "You are needed at the Round Table immediately!" A knight approached in a jog, catching both the adults just as they were to part.

      Gawain furrowed his brows, exchanging a glance with Jeanne before he spoke, "Is something the matter?"

     "The lady Jeanne must also attend," the knight panted, stopping right before them as he caught his breath, "the King requests your presence at once."

     The round table was set ablaze with the buzzing of chatter. Lit torches had cast long shadows upon the room while the knights mingled around one another, the way bees would at a hive. Some of the men were seated while others stayed standing, goblets of water in their hands. Some stood by the open windows while the rest of the knights remained at the table. The topic of discussion was confusion and curiosity over such a short notice for a meeting.

     As this was Jeanne's first time at a meeting of the Round Table, she was nervous. Her hands were fidgeting with the straps of her vambrace while her eyes were laid upon the many knights who seemed not to notice her presence. She was biting the inside of her cheek as her leg bounced underneath the giant wooden table.

     She twitched as Gawain sat at the seat next to her. She looked over at him, watching his demeanour, analyzing how he was so calm and fluid. She leaned towards him slightly, just enough to indicate she wanted to talk to him. He leaned over as well.

     "What do you think it is the King wants to about?" She whispered, hoping no other knight had heard her.

     Gawain shrugged, "Arthur has barely mentioned a thing to me."

     Her eyes fell to her gauntlets, "Do you think it is about me?" She huffed, "Has Camelot declared war with Francia? What— _what_ if Francia has lost the war?"

     "Jeanne," he eased, his voice clear past the loud and deep voices of the rest of the Round.

     She looked at him, frown on her lips and a worried look in her eyes. "What if—"

     "Everything will be fine, the king will be here soon and the matter will be settled. In any case, there will be nothing to fret over."

     As if on cue, the birch doors groaned open, causing silence to fill the room as everyone stood. The King strode in equipped with a cape and crown, he walked through the crowd that parted at his very sight and took his place at his respectful seat. Everyone sat in unison after the king had sat down but the silence was kept.

     "We have called for a meeting in order to discuss our involvement in the Francian War. After the loss of countless lives and the injury of Sir Galahad, it is only fair that we hold a meeting."

     The table boomed with life again, loud and strenuous arguments lit the table with life and scandal. Knights were no better than the common housewife when it came to gossip and assumption.

    Jeanne took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she heard her name slip through the mouths of the nobelity in the room. She could hear their contempt and dissatisfaction with her. But, there was one voice that was different from the rest; that of Gawain's.

     "Jeanne, it is not your fault," he murmured.

     She gave a small nod before the king pounded on the table, silencing his knights with only two thumps.

     He stood, everyone's eyes on him. "This meeting is not to tear Camelot's relationship with Francia. You might be quick to judge Francia and many of the Franks we accepted into our lands but remember who it was that begun this war. South Sussex hold as much, if not more, guilt over our casualties than Francia." His voice boomed, radiating off the high ceiling and silencing even the many thoughts of his Round Table. "We have asked the Round to meet in order to discuss the Kingdom's benefit _not_ to declare war."

     Jeanne could finally breathe. Her heart easing and some tightness in her chest relieving.

     "Everyone will have a chance to speak and vote; all will be heard and respected. The subject of our talk will be whether Camelot stops trying to keep peace between South Sussex and Francia." As was custom, one by one they stood and spoke on their worries and thoughts, leaving the King himself as the last to speak, so as to avoid bias. They began the debate clockwise.

     Bedivere, a very trusted knight of the king, stood. "War is a delicate and most sensitive topic whether as a subject or an action. We must consider the social implications of involving Camelot in something that should not be our war to fight. Yes, we might be aiding those in need but we must also consider which Kingdom is most beneficial to us. Francia is a sea away, but South Sussex is right next to us, helping South Sussex will leave us at a disadvantage against Europa but if we are to side with Francia there will be an immediate threat of South Sussex waging war with Camelot." There were cheers as he sat, it seemed as if many agreed with his thinking.

     Another knight stood. He cleared his throat and fixed his tunic. "Francia had helped all of Logres against the invading Saxons, it is only fair that we return the favour. South Sussex has no claim or right to Brittany and Normandie and thus I suggest we continue to try and help maintain the commoners and civilians safe."

     A blond began, "Let us not forget South Sussex's aid and help during the time of the Southern Fire. South Sussex has always been a supportive and a perfect ally. To think we would even help Francia? It is absurd and ridiculous. South Sussex offers our economic growth and social prosperity. Our Kingdoms flourish continuously and if we help Francia in this war, we will cease to succeed."

     This went on, knight by knight. Some statements were hateful while others caused true thinking and consideration.

     Much too soon, it was Jeanne's turn. After an approving and reassuring nod from Gawain, she stood.

     "Hello dear knights," she gulped, gathering her courage. It was odd, she could lead an army to victory but standing in front of foreign soldiers and nobility caused her great uneasiness. She took a deep breath, the judging eyes of the knights burning holes through her small frame.

     She looked up, away from the knights, past the windows and into the dark night, thinking back to her home; to Francia. The warm sun upon her skin, the growing wheat for miles to come, the mountains in the background of her small village and the feeling of the soft earth beneath her feet as she ran through the farming fields in the late spring.

     "As you all already know, my name is Jehanne d'Arc and I am a General of the French army. I am no politician or nobel or… or even a woman with education. I am a _simple_ peasant girl that grew up in a lovely but tiny village in one of the most uncared for departments of Francia, which so lies right next to Old Saxony." She looked about the table. "I had lived a satisfying and humble childhood. I have learned all I could from watching my parents, from church, from whatever it was that I saw or heard. I," she looked at Gawain, "had never learnt of the turmoil that my country was in because my father did not want his children to know violence. I was shocked when my tiny village was partly burnt to ashes by the Saxons…" She paused, blinking away the memory of the high flames.

     "A feeling so strong settled in my soul that I had to do everything in my power to fight for _my_ country. For _my_ king. And even if it brought me to my death I would do all I could. I will not bore you with the details of my military career, or my injuries or even of my _failures_. You all know of that.

     "Sir Bedivere so rightly stated; this is not your war. This is _not_ Camelot's battle. I ask not for war, for support or for fear of South Sussex. I ask," she looked at the king in the eyes, a very bold move that shocked the entire table, "I ask for the protection of children," her volume increased with every word, "of wives, of mothers and sons _and ah_ ," she lost her breath, the table a dead and thick silence, "and...and the civilians who have not a single quarrel with South Sussex. I ask for the small villages and large cities alike who were torn apart by war. For families that mourn and weep for a better life, for a peaceful time.

     "Camelot, if it stays in Francia, it is to be neutral."

     She took uneven breaths as she sat down, closing her eyes momentarily to calm herself. She was shaking but it wasn't enough to show the other knights that she was afraid.

     "I wish to speak," a redhead spoke up, stopping Gawain from standing.

     The king looked at Gawain and after the kight approved, Arthur allowed the interference.

     A man stood, his lips stretched into a thin line as he straightened his stance. Confidence and poise glinting in his eyes. "With all due respect to the lady Jeanne. I suggest that, politically speaking, we continue our work in Francia as we have done so far. Cornwall and Camelot have an alliance with South Sussex and this should not be overlooked over the skirmishes in Europa. Francia poses a threat to Sussex and it is only natural that us Englishmen support the English and not those who we have quarreled with for ages. I propose military support for South Sussex in their battle for Brittany and Normandie."

     Jeanne shot up from her seat, not even asking for permission. "Pardon my French, La France n'avait jamais possédé une menace à Sussex. In fact, it was Sussex qui attaque à la France," she defended, breathing heavily at such an accusation. When fully riled up, it was a common thing to hear her speak in French, it was as if she had forgotten English all together.

     "Lady Jeanne," the king began, "Sir Tristan is speaking."

     "I do not mind, my King. I would like to engage in a debate with the Lady, if your highness would allow." Tristan, the Prince of Cornwall, smiled kindly.

     "I will allow it," Arthur nodded.

     Tristan turned towards Jeanne, the knights staring between them in anticipation. "At the table, we speak only in English, I very much apologize, but it is the only language we all speak and understand."

     Jeanne could hear the murmur and hisses of whispers and hushed insults or comments that gave the table some life.

    She blinked, holding her head high and placing her hand over the crucifix that hung around her neck. "Sussex attacked Francia. Never before had Francia posed a threat—you so claim—to Sussex's rule, land or anything of the sort. Your fellow English Kingdom attacked our lands, exploited the country and hurt our people. _My people_." She held her hand to her chest, "I do not speak on my King's behalf, but from what I know we have only been trying to defend our territory and lands from every party invading; whether it be Sussex or Old Saxony. Brittany and Normandie are French duchies, they are _not_ English property."


	13. Attention

     "Jeanne." Gawain landed a hand on her shoulder as if to help her cool her head. Jeanne, after her speech, had left the Round Table in anger and distaste, and of course, Gawain followed her close behind.

     Jeanne shook his hand off and grit her teeth. "You do not understand how...ridiculous I felt. It was unseemly of the Round Table to treat me in such...I cannot even think of a proper word. Sir Gawain, I am perplexed and disappointed in Camelot and all these knights. How? How could they simply treat me in..."

     "Tristan did not mean to offend you, Jeanne, he is simply concerned over Camelot's safety."

     Jeanne shot him an even look. "Tristan's sole intention was to offend me, I am certain of it."

     Gawain again reached for her, taking her hand in his and caressing the back of it with his thumb, gently. "Jeanne, I can feel your disappointment. Though, you must surely understand that Camelot's loss is important to Cornwall as well. Politically and strategically speaking, if Camelot is to support anyone, it should be Sussex. If Francia had an ally I believe they would rather ally Castilla or Navarre over Camelot."

     Jeanne nodded. "I understand that, yes, it is only logical. Though, I feel that his form of speech was meant to attack me and Francia personally."

     "Although Arthur consults his Round Table, he has the authority to choose what he feels is right, and this means that you should never loose hope. Arthur is a good king and he does not make ill-informed decisions, you must trust him."

     Jeanne nodded, "You are right..." She mumbled, "I am acting much too distressed."

     "Now," he kissed her hand before giving it back to her, "I will walk you to your chambers."

     Jeanne sighed and nodded. "You wish to make sure I do not make a fool of myself, right?"

     Gawain laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, no, nothing of the sort, my lady. My intentions are pure."

     Arthur was seated in his room, taking one last glance at a few letters that scattered his desk. The soft, flickering light of the candles cast moving shadows against the parchments. He thought of the show that was played at the Round Table and he frowned in dismay. Tristan had brought up important and vital points but the look on Jeanne's face...he could not simply shake it off.

     "I can see you are indecisive, brother dear." He didn't jump at the voice, in fact, he wasn't exactly surprised. Slowly, he stood from his seat and turned to meet his sister. He did not need to say anything for her to understand how he felt.

     She walked towards him, black dress following her trail. "Oh, Artie," she wrapped her arms around him. "How about that warm lavender bath, yes?"

     He shook his head. "I have nearly a million documents to sort, I have no time waste on baths and lavender."

     Morgana pulled away from the hug, pushing his hair from his eyes. She sighed, "I will always be your older sister."

     Arthur frowned. "I must apologize for worrying you, I know how much you hate worrying over me."

     The brunette shook her head and sighed once more. "I am your sister, I should worry over you; it is but my destiny," she laughed.

     He nodded.

     "How is the ring? Is it too tight?" She asked, taking his hand and looking at the House ring.

     Arthur shrugged. "It can get a little tight at night, but it is much safer this way."

     "I could conjure a spell for the pain, make it hurt less, if you would like that."

     Shaking his head, he took his hand back and turned towards the table. "What do you suggest I do?"

     She wiggled her brows—not that he could see. "Diarmuid."

     " _Morgana_ ," he groaned, "I loathe it when you are vulgar. That is nothing like what a lady should be."

     Morgana crossed her arms over her chest, huffing, "Why are men allowed to be vulgar but when a woman so much as speaks something suggestive, she is burned at the stake?"

     Arthur looked back at her, giving her an even look. "I am an advocate for equality, much more than you are. Though, I disagree with you. Equality does not mean that a woman should sink to the depths of distaste and make indecent comments and jests. A woman's beauty is her discreetness and purity."

     Morgana rolled her eyes. "Of course, you would think something so..."

     "Are you here to offend me, sister? Or will you give me an earnest answer to my question." He blinked.

     She sat down at his seat and stared up at him. "I am assuming that you want some superhuman knowledge."

     He leaned against the desk, arms crossing over his chest. "I need advice. It worries me so, the Round Table wishes one thing but my loyalty and friendship for Jeanne leaves me feeling guilty."

     "I cannot give you my thoughts as this is a decision you must make alone. The weight of the crown," she stood, "befalls on you as by birth right. Though, I know that it is much too heavy for you. Forgive me, Artie dear."

     "Why must a king have to decide everything? Why could you not be Queen? You were first born."

     "I am a bastard child; a bastard child can never be crowned king or queen; lord forbid it."

     Arthur looked down at the ring. "It is a wonder how much one bloody ring could change your life."

     Morgana stood from the seat, landing a hand on her brother's blond head. "Oh, Artie, how I wish things could have been different for you. We should...arrange a day. _Yes_. A day."

     "What for?" The king lifted a brow, fidgeting with a plume.

     She smiled. "A day, once a month, for you to leave the castle without the bloody ring...for you to be yourself."

     He rolled his eyes and pushed from the desk. "Oh _no_ , goodness no. That is out of the question."

     Morgana shrugged. "If that is what you wish...

     Arthur sat on the bench, looking at the trees in the courtyard as he tried to come up with the best solution. He had not spoken to anyone else about his concerns and it seemed he had forgotten about everything else that had plagued him days prior—and that meant Diarmuid's brand.

     "My king," he flinched at the voice of the knight, looking over at him. He smiled, standing from the bench.

     "Hello Diarmuid. How are you?"

     "I do not wish to bother you, my king—"

     "Arthur," he corrected.

     Diarmuid nodded. "But my brand...it, erm, it seems to burn as of late."

     Arthur had just remembered it all. "Oh! I am very sorry for having forgotten about it. I am really very sorry about it. We should probably go speak with Morgana and Merlin, maybe they have come up with something." He readied to walk towards the castle put he was stopped by Diarmuid's hand on his shoulder.

     "Arthur," his golden eyes were piercing, and Arthur felt oddly small under his gaze, "what is bothering you?"

     Arthur furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?" He asked.

     "I," he cleared his throat, "I feel as if you are being bothered by something. I would like to say that as your knight and friend, I am willing to listen to you."

     The king gave a smile. "Thank you, though this is of a king's concern and I should not riddle you with such silliness. Now, we should find Morgana and Merlin, I am certain they should have something up their sleeve for the pain."

     The two knights walked to the castle, entering the coolness of the stone walls and making their way to the wizard's office. Since it was sunny and bright out, the light of the sun leaked into the halls of the castle, casting golden light to shine against the beige stone walls.

     They did not converse much as they strode to the halls towards the office. They had talked about sparring and of some other things that had come to mind as they approached the room. They were not even so much as introduced when Arthur pushed the door open, not seemingly interrupting anything as Morgana sat by the window, staring out into space and Merlin sat at his desk, writing what seemed to be a book of sorts.

     "Hello, my king." He did not look up from his writing, as usually happened when he was engrossed in something. Arthur already knew that it was not meant to disrespect him in anyway and thus he took no offense. Although he was the court magician, he was also the court physician and that meant he was always busy with whatever it may be.

      Morgana drew from the window and walked to greet the men. She gave her brother's hand a kiss and then she stepped closer to Diarmuid, giving him a kiss on his shoulder for she could frankly not reach his cheek.

     Diarmuid blushed. He did not fully understand why she was so...forward with her kisses and flirting. He took a step back and he could see the smile on her lips, as well as the knitting brows on Merlin's face.

     "Morgana, _please_ ," Arthur chided.

     She shrugged. "Forgive me, he is much too handsome, I must admit."

     "You should not do anything against his wishes, it is wrong and unfair to Merlin."

     Merlin finally lifted his eyes up to see them all. He saw the burning cheeks of Diarmuid, the smile on Morgana's lips and the evident grumble that came from Arthur's mouth. "Oh Arthur," he stood from his desk, "Morgana's flirting does not faze me." He gave an apologetic smile and then he spoke. "Though, I do apologize for her behaviour, Diarmuid."

     Morgana crossed her arms over chest and rolled her green eyes. "I am not a little girl, stop wishing to control my life."

     Diarmuid gulped, finally stepping up to say something. "I—"

     Morgana pushed a lock of her wavy hair over her shoulder as if everything that was being told to her was below her and she was the queen of the world. She was very much like this, she had this essence of superiority and that she was barely in the wrong. "If my advances are not welcomed, my dear knight may just address his uneasiness and I shall comply."

     "Lady Morgana," Diarmuid bit the inside of his cheek, not knowing how to stand properly to face her. His arms were limp on either side of him and his eyes jumped around the room. It was odd to have a woman pay attention to him (although he received this attention often, probably even in more vulgar terms), though he believed that the Lady Morgana was different. His curse must be inevitable.

     "It is not." Morgana answered.

     Diarmuid flinched.

     "It is not inevitable. I do not fall for the curse; your looks and your charisma are what draw me. I must say, you are truly a man that has it all in one."

     Merlin cleared his throat and Morgana shot him a side glance before smiling at Diarmuid.

     "You need not worry, Diarmuid, although you are near perfection, I can never take the man of another." No one noticed that her eyes flickered to the king for a fraction of a second and then she landed a hand of Diarmuid's shoulder. "Now," she breathed, "I am sure you wish to get rid of that mark, but it will be much harder without Youth."

     "I have been working on some potions, I think I have been able to make one that allows you to over come the pain," Merlin spoke, his tone grave, "though we must seek out Youth, that should be our main priority."

     "And Camelot's issue with Francia?" Diarmuid asked, brows knitting and frown stretching his lips. "Should that not be our main priority?"

     " _That_ ," Morgana answered, "is the King's priority. Not ours."

 


End file.
